Hawkeye, Compromised
by Thoughtful Constellations
Summary: After the aftermath of the Battle of New York, Clint has to deal with the aftereffects of Loki's mind control and what this could mean for both him & for Natasha. When STRIKE Team: Delta is assigned a new mission, Clint must learn how to be himself again. Most importantly, he must learn how to trust himself. And like always, he's not alone. (Sequel to Girl, Compromised.)
1. Shawarma

**Welcome to _Girl, Compromised _sequel 2.0.**

**The general consensus was that the original sequel I'd started writing completely sucked, so I've deleted that and started over with this one. There are already changes in this first chapter, even though there are parts that I kept from the first chapter of the original sequel, but I promise that this is definitely going to be a reboot and hopefully one that is more enjoyable and less sucky. This chapter should be the only one that resembles the original sequel. **

**Thank you to everyone who sent me your thoughts and opinions on the now deleted sequel, and thank you to everyone who's deciding to stay on this journey that I'm trying to redo. Hopefully it's better. As for my song recs that I do almost every chapter, there are going to be repeats from the original sequel because some of those songs were too perfect.**

**That being said, if you want extra emotions, listen to "Poison & Wine" - The Civil Wars. I know it's a repeat, but it's a damn good song that's damn fitting for this chapter.**

**Let me know what you think of this. Seriously, if there's anything that seems out of character or weird, please tell me instead of letting me get through 10 chapters of stuff that sucks. So these first few chapters will definitely need feedback because I'm going with a different approach, and I really need to know if I'm going in the right direction and what y'all think. So talk to me!**

**Enjoy! =)**

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

If this mission had been any other mission, it would have ended with Clint and Natasha still in their uniforms, covered in blood and sweat and reeking to high heaven of gun powder and _sweat _as they tried to race towards an adrenaline-fueled sexual release. If this mission had been any other mission, Natasha would have grabbed Clint's short blond hair and tugged hard, crushing his mouth brutally against hers as he fucked her so hard against the wall she would have reverted back to thinking solely in Russian, something she only did whenever she was completely out of her mind.

But this mission ended in shawarma. It ended in exhausted, sore muscles, and a mouthful of shawarma that was probably in the better half of all the shawarma Natasha had ever eaten in her life. As she took another bite of the delicious, calorie-filled meal, she noticed the irony that she had had shawarma long before she'd ever eaten chocolate chip pancakes, and she couldn't help wondering how real her life actually was. Especially after everything that had happened with the aliens and Loki and punching the shit out of Clint, she was pretty sure that her life wasn't actually a real thing.

She lifted her green eyes and let them fall exhaustedly on Clint, silently assessing his mental, emotional, and physical states as he ate his own shawarma. Honestly, he looked more tired than anything. He looked completely worn out as if he'd been going nonstop—she could see the evidence of his exertion in the light red-rimming around his eyes and the unnatural pale blue his eyes only turned whenever he'd gone over 24 hours without sleep.

Clint felt Natasha's gaze on him, and he glanced back at her, his eyes meeting hers. Subtly, Natasha cocked one red eyebrow up as her way of silently asking him if he were ok. Without saying a word, Clint blinked back to let her know that they would talk about it later, and Natasha replied by pressing her lips together. After seven years together, the two assassins had a language that only they understood, and Natasha had never been more grateful for it than in that moment.

"Ok, team, I have a proposal," Stark said suddenly, causing Natasha's attention to snap back to what was happening in the rest of the world around her. "What do you say we all just go back and stay at the Tower tonight? It'll be hell trying to get out of here for anyone else who lives anywhere else in the city."

"I'm ok with it," Dr. Banner replied almost immediately. "Truthfully, I think that probably is the smartest thing to do. Keep us all together, anyway."

"Perfect. The good doctor is in. What say you, Thunder-And-Lightning-Very-Very-Frightening?" Stark redirected his attention to Thor.

"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated. I would very much like to take you up on your offer," Thor replied with a gracious nod.

"Awesome. Spy Kids?" Stark narrowed his dark eyes at the two spies, his expression expectant and patient. Natasha hesitated as she tried to think of the right thing to do without waiting for too long. Realistically, she knew that the smart thing to do was to decline the invitation, to just suck up how long it would take to get to the closest safe house she and Clint had in the city so that they could recuperate in peace and quiet together. However, she wasn't entirely sure how Clint's leg would hold up. With a quick glance, she looked down at it and tried to calculate how long she thought he would take to limp through the destruction of downtown and beyond when they could just stay at Stark's Tower. She lifted her eyes up to Clint's, again silently asking him what he wanted to do. If Clint really didn't want to stay at the Tower, he'd make it known, but he just stared back at her, his way of letting her know that he was fine with whatever she decided.

"We're in," she confirmed as she looked back to Stark.

"Good. Cap?" Stark moved on as if Natasha had barely spoken.

"Alright," Steve answered in a calm, steady voice. Natasha noticed the easy way in which the young Army captain replied—any ounce of the animosity that had formerly existed between him and Stark now seemed to be gone, and she couldn't say that she minded all that much. She couldn't say that she felt as though she knew either Steve or Stark all that well, but she felt that she got pretty accurate reads on people, and she picked up on the fact that both Stark and Steve read as good guys.

Satisfied with everyone's responses, Stark turned back towards Banner and started going on and on about something to do with science. And seeing as how no one else seemed to give a shit about what Stark was blathering on about, and no one else seemed to be giving a shit about anything other than going the fuck to sleep, Natasha turned back to Clint.

"How's your leg?" she asked quietly, careful to keep her voice low enough so that just Clint could hear without straining to make out what she was saying. She didn't know if he felt comfortable enough to let the rest of the Avengers know about his hearing, and even so, it wasn't her place to be the one to make the reveal. That was Clint's decision—not hers.

"It's ok," he murmured back at the same volume. "It hurts like a bitch."

Sympathetically, Natasha offered up a quiet nod. He rarely liked to admit when he was hurt, so if he didn't feel the desire to cover up how injured he actually felt. Earlier during the battle, he'd jumped off the roof and gone crashing through a plate glass window, thereby injuring his ankle and giving himself a nasty gash up the back of his calf that had made Natasha visibly wince the first time she'd looked at it.

"I bet," she agreed.

"Your head?" Clint asked. Natasha watched his eyes flick up to the cut she'd received on her forehead earlier, and she gave a nonchalant shrug.

"It's ok," she replied. "I'll live through it."

"You sure?" A hint of a smile tugged the corners of Clint's mouth upward, and Natasha couldn't help the smile that threatened to overtake her own mouth. Up until that moment, she'd been worried about the Clint Barton she would get back from Loki, but as she watched the archer's dry sense of humor still manage to persevere despite everything he'd been through so far, she felt her anxiety start to ebb just the tiniest bit.

"I'm not sure, but here's to hoping," she answered. With a discreet smile just for her, he brought his shawarma back up to his mouth and took another bite.

_Oh, Clint_, Natasha thought to herself as she tried not to scrutinize his every move. _What on Earth happened to you? And where do we go from here?_

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><p>But Natasha didn't get to know these answers until several hours later. She pushed the door open to the bedroom that she and Clint got to share on the top floor of Stark Tower, inwardly sighing as she caught sight of the bed. Behind her, Clint limped into the room.<p>

"Jesus. It isn't home, but by God, I think this'll do," he sighed, his voice coming out with just the slightest edge to it the way it did whenever he was in pain. "Want first shower?"

Natasha felt her tongue grow thick in her mouth. Even though she could sense that he wasn't 100% Clint, he was still _Clint_. It was so like him to selflessly ask her if she wanted the first shower—there he was dirty and sweaty and exhausted, and yet he was still asking her if she wanted the privilege of getting clean first. She turned her gaze on him and noticed the differences in what they were currently doing versus what they usually would have been doing.

She and Clint were supposed to be on top of each other now, grabbing and grinding and bruising each other with vicious kisses that verged on breaking skin and drawing blood. But that was clearly not going to happen tonight. Instead of fucking each other senseless, they were boneless and weightless as they tried to pull themselves together long enough to make sense of who was going to shower before the other.

"No. You can have it," she replied. Clint looked as though he were about to argue, but he just quietly exhaled instead of protesting. "I have some extra clothes for you in my duffel bag." He glanced over at her with a curious expression in his blue eyes, and Natasha shrugged half-heartedly. "I was planning on getting you back. So I packed stuff for you."

"Thanks." Clint's voice was nothing but genuine, and he crossed to the bag before glancing up at her. "Mind if I take this into the bathroom?"

"Not at all." Natasha watched him nod and then lift the bag over his shoulder as he started his painful limp into the bathroom, quiet as he shut the door behind him. She swallowed hard as soon as she realized that she was by herself. Her body screamed at her to fall back into the soft mattress and to bury her head into the pillow as she lost herself into the glorious unconscious state known as sleep, but she didn't let herself. Instead, she made herself sit upright so that she would be ready to shower as soon as Clint was done.

That was one thing that the two did separately. Well, unless they were planning on having shower sex. But it was one of the few times that the assassins could get some alone time to decompress and let go of all the stresses underneath the hot spray of water, and it was something that neither of them was willing to give up unless they were actually going to have shower sex, a feat that they only attempted every now and then since they were too impatient to really try to find a good way of going about the complicated act.

Usually, Clint showered in under seven minutes, but today, he was in and out in under four. Natasha's body went still with surprise as she heard the shower switch off from behind the closed door. Clint took a fast shower on a regular day, but he really must not have wanted to stay in for that long if he was going to take a four-minute-max shower. She pulled herself together long enough to crawl to the end of the bed so that she didn't look like she'd been waiting for him to come out, even thought that was exactly what she'd been doing.

Barely any time passed before Clint opened the door, and he stepped out while towel-drying his hair. "You should be good."

"Thanks," Natasha murmured as she passed him. He didn't show any indication of having heard her, and she only realized after she'd shut the door behind her and started up the shower that he probably hadn't had his hearing aids in. Quickly, she undressed and leapt into the shower so fast that she knew she was going to have her own personal shower time beat before she'd even let the water completely drench her hair. More than anything, she wanted to be with Clint. She wanted to sit and talk to him and figure out what had happened, what Loki had done to him.

Loki.

God, she couldn't stop playing Loki's words over and over in her head. At various points throughout the battle, she'd remembered Loki's chilling words, the confidence of his tone, and even the coolness of his eyes as he'd promised her that he was going to have Clint kill her in all the ways she feared most. Even though she was alone, she swallowed hard and scrubbed her hair as hard as she could. She knew that she was being irrational, but running her own nails through her head made her think that she could scratch Loki's memory out.

She rinsed the shampoo and then the conditioner out of her hair as she tried not to hate herself. Technically, she didn't even have any Loki memories to go off of. She just had one solitary incident with him, and Clint was off in the other room with about a thousand probably coursing through his head right then. She didn't know what the hell he'd gone through, but she knew she wanted to find out.

Natasha shut the water off and stepped out onto the bathmat outside the shower only to get dressed faster than she'd ever dressed before. It was just a matter of minutes, and then she was done, opening the bathroom door and crossing back into the bedroom. She had half-expected Clint to be on his way to go to sleep, but he looked alert and awake as she crossed towards the bed. His blue eyes landed on her, and he gazed at her steadily, as if he were watching every little move that she was making. Sometimes he did this—he watched her the way he would watch one of his targets. He looked her over head to toe and then back up, trying to find out what made her work physically and emotionally, and quite honestly, Natasha couldn't fault him for it when she did the same thing to him.

It was a spy thing—just out of habit. They looked at each other and tried to figure out what they didn't know just by looking, and sometimes they were successful at discovering little things about each other. But today, Clint seemed to find nothing. His face was appreciative and quiet and nothing more.

"Hey," she quietly greeted.

"Hey," he said back. Natasha pulled back the covers of the comforter and sank down into the bed, her muscles instantly relaxing into the luxury that Tony Stark provided in his guest bedrooms. For a second, everything almost felt normal. She could almost pretend that they were back in their apartment with no one else around, but that was only if she focused hard enough.

"It's been almost four months since the last time I saw you," she said as she kept her voice cool and controlled so as not to give anything away.

"Three months, and a little over a week," Clint specified in that tone of voice that was so _him _she wanted to cry.

"Yeah. That," she said. Silence passed between them as they tried to figure out what to say. "Clint—"

"Nat—" Clint stopped talking as he realized that she was talking, and Natasha stopped speaking the moment she heard Clint's voice. Grinning wryly, she looked down at the covers.

"Do you want to—to talk?" she asked, hoping that she didn't sound as awkward as she felt.

"Not right now." Clint's voice was steady and firm, letting her know that he was standing by what he was saying. She nodded and looked up at him.

"Ok," she said. "I'll listen whenever you want to."

"I know." He took a breath and let it out, his shoulders lowering with each ounce of oxygen that he let drawn out of him. "Honestly, my head's killing me right now, and I can't focus on much else other than my leg."

"Didn't you get any pain meds?" Natasha asked with a frown. Clint shook his head. "I have some in my bag. You can have some if you want."

"Ok." Clint usually argued with her, but tonight, he surprised her again and didn't fight her on it. Natasha wasn't sure if she wished that he would argue, but she didn't give any indication as to how she felt about it as she slipped out from beneath the covers to cross over to the duffel she'd left inside the bathroom. There in the side pocket right where she'd left it was a bottle of Percocet. She pulled it out and lifted it triumphantly into the air. Without thinking, she tossed it at him.

"Think fast," she said. Clint lifted a hand to catch it, but it bounced off his wrist and fell onto the bed. He stared at it as if he truly hadn't expected to drop it.

"Not fair," he mumbled, but Natasha could tell that he didn't mean it. She crossed back to the bed and slid back beneath the covers, watching him pick up the bottle and unscrew the lid. Only then did she notice the glass of water on his nightstand, and she wondered where he'd gotten it from. Most likely, while she'd been in the shower, he had wandered out into the main area of the floor Stark had stuck them on, and he'd managed to find a glass and a water source.

Clint put the pill in his mouth and tipped back his glass of water, swallowing it. He grimaced and set the glass back down on his nightstand. "There we go. Hopefully that'll do something."

"Yeah, I hope so," Natasha agreed. And again, they were left to their silence that was full of things they both wanted to say but couldn't figure out how to. That was one thing that hadn't changed with them over the years—they both sucked with words and how to talk about feelings when they both couldn't stop feeling the damn things. It always struck Natasha as funny how she could share a living space with this man, eat the food he cooked without ever once worrying about him poisoning her, and raise a cat with him, but she couldn't bring herself to tell him all the words that sharpened the edge of her tongue with the momentum they longed to burst forth with.

"Natasha…" Clint's words trailed off, and he sighed, letting his head fall back against his pillow in mild frustration.

"We don't have to right now. We don't have to," Natasha said reassuringly. Purely out of habit, she lifted her hand and placed it on the inside of his wrist. She was used to Clint leaning into her touch or relaxing beneath her hand, but as soon as she placed her bare skin on his, he reacted in a way he never had before—he jumped. He jumped as if she had burned him, and he stared at her in a way that she could only describe as accusing. He blinked in surprise, and then he looked down at her hand still on his and swallowed.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't…that just…"

"It's ok. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." Natasha drew her hand away, ignoring how badly she wanted to touch him and curl up into him. She should have been holding him or playing with his hair or something, but she couldn't make herself move.

"No, it's—it's me being…I'm sorry." Clint swallowed again and looked away. Natasha shook her head, but he couldn't see her. Suddenly, he looked back at her with his blazing blue eyes, the intensity bright in them. "I missed you. I really, _really _missed you."

Despite the heaviness of the unsaid words pressing in on them, Natasha found it in herself to laugh, and so she let out a stutter that managed to pass for a laugh, meriting a small smile from Clint. "God. Yeah. I missed you, too. I really did."

"Noelle?" Clint's face suddenly turned concerned. Tension entered his facial muscles, widening his eyes and making his mouth go still. "Is someone watching Noelle?"

"Yeah, I got Allison from down the hall to take care of her," Natasha replied before Clint could become any more worried. "We'll have to change the locks again, though, because I had to tell her where to find the spare."

"Oh, ok." Clint visibly relaxed, and Natasha couldn't help smiling.

"I swear you love that cat more than you love me," she remarked. Clint tossed her a look, but she could have sworn that she saw a smirk deep in the lines of his face, a face she would have known without needing to look at it at all.

"Not true," he protested. "I was just concerned for her safety."

"I know." Natasha leaned back into the pillows, and she turned her head to look at Clint. Slowly but surely, he was starting to drift off. "Hey. Clint."

He blinked his eyes several times as he realized she'd said his name. "Yeah?"

"Hearing aids." She tapped her ear to remind him that he'd put them back in after his shower. His eyes widened just a little, and he reached up to pull them out when he stopped himself halfway, pausing to look at her with a slight frown on his face.

"Nat…"

"Yeah?" She watched a cloud pass over his face, and she waited for him to elaborate on it. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath.

"I'm not safe to be around right now," he said carefully, as if he were afraid that his words would make her bolt from the room.

"I don't think you're something I can't handle," Natasha replied, her own voice careful as she watched his face react to her statement. He looked disturbed by her response, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to argue with her, but he just sighed.

"Ok," he said. "I just…wanted to let you know."

"Ok. I have received the message, and I'm not going anywhere. Just so you know," Natasha answered. She kept her eyes on him as he slowly took out his hearing aids and placed them on the nightstand before leaning over and turning the light off. Just like that, they were plunged in darkness. Natasha sensed exactly where Clint was in relation to her, and she sensed precisely how far away he was and how he was lying. He was lying facing her, his arm tensed as if he were stopping himself from moving towards her to drape it over her waist the way he always did whenever they fell asleep together.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. They were supposed to fall asleep next to each other, protecting each other, curled into each other. That was what was normal. Not…whatever this was. But Natasha knew better than to push anything. She would never push Clint to do anything he wasn't comfortable with, and it was clear that he wasn't comfortable with being too close to her right then, as much as it killed her to acknowledge it.

She longed to turn the light on and make him listen to her. She longed to touch him and reassure him that she was there for him, that she always had been and always would be. She wanted to show him that she was willing to wait for him to talk as long as he needed her to because she of all people understood what it was like to be unmade—she wanted to do all of this.

But she didn't.

Instead, she lay completely still and closed her eyes. For the first time in a long time, she was falling asleep in a bed beside Clint, but she'd never felt more alone.


	2. Morning

**Shoutouts to fluttershypegasus1, BlackHawk's Child, EpicPackage, nikki, Aunt Siduri, DoomedGirl, yornma, ReKoJ, pengineer, princessjoey630, klausgirl4055, jessierp, kfullerton21, Jo, AmeliaSkellig, buh-dum-tss, JustForFun45, Guest, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**Ok, so it seems mostly positive feedback so far, so I would definitely say that that's a good thing!**

**I forgot to include this in my last Author's Note, but yet, updates will remain at Mondays and Thursdays for consistency's sake =)**

**The changes are more noticeable in this chapter. I'm taking a different approach with the aftereffects of Loki's mind control than I did with WPD, and I'm starting to set up for the actual plot itself. So this chapter is definitely different from the second chapter of WPD.**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Salvation" - Gabrielle Aplin =)**

**Please keep leaving reviews and letting me know what you think! Like I said, these first few chapters are crucial, especially since I messed up the last time, and no one said really said anything about it. So yeah. Let me know your thoughts! Thank you for giving this one a try =)**

**Enjoy! =)**

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

The second Natasha woke up the next morning, she knew that something was very wrong. After seven years of learning a person inside and out, she just _knew _whenever Clint was awake. It was a subtle thing, something she couldn't really explain, but she could sense whenever he was awake without having to even look at him. So when she slowly found herself conscious, she sensed Clint's abnormal stillness beside her, and her heart plummeted.

Clint never woke up before she did. He always slept as late as he could push it, and even then, he would _push _it. Natasha was the one who woke up early. She liked to get up, spend an hour doing Pilates, and then set about her day doing whatever it was that she needed or wanted to do. Clint, on the other hand, would sleep all day if he didn't have something to wake him up.

Natasha rolled onto her back and squinted her eyes at him as she stretched her muscles out. He noticed her movement and looked over at her, his expression almost too cautious. It didn't escape Natasha's notice that he had positioned himself in such a way that even if he had reached out in his sleep during the night, he wouldn't have come in contact with her in any way, shape, or form.

"Hey. Did I wake you up?" Clint asked, his voice warm and rumbly the way it always was in the morning. "I was trying to be quiet."

"No, no, you're fine," Natasha reassured. Her body longed to wiggle over to him and snuggle up against him, but she didn't need him to tell her that he was still uncomfortable with being close to her, so she stayed where she was. "Of all the things I was not expecting to wake up to this morning."

"Hmm?" Clint asked, confused.

"You being awake before me. I think the last time that happened was Barcelona, and that wasn't even because you were willingly awake." Natasha lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she yawned. Clint didn't answer, and for a second, she thought that he hadn't heard her, but she looked at him and saw him frowning deeply.

"Barcelona?" he asked.

"Yeah," Natasha slowly replied, pushing herself up onto her left elbow so she could turn and look at him more closely. "About two years back? The mission we did to take down that illegal firearms company?"

Clint paused, the frown still on his face. "Yeah. The firearms company."

"Clint?" Natasha felt her face sink down into a frown of its own as she watched his expression cloud over with something darker that she couldn't quite identify. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he quickly answered, the tension draining out of his features as he physically shrugged off whatever had come over him. "I'm fine. I just had a…I don't know. I had a weird moment. But I'm ok."

"Clint, if something's going on with you—"

"Nat, I'm fine." He cut her off before she could finish. His tone wasn't sharp or biting, nor was it in any way a warning—instead, he spoke firmly, showing her that he was as ok as he insisted he was. Natasha blinked as she stared at him. His eyes gazed levelly back at her, and it was only then that she realized they were at an impasse.

"I trust you." She knew the exact thing to say to him to get him to lower his defenses, and she watched as her words took hold in his brain. He stared at her with wary eyes before smirking in a way that didn't reach his eyes.

"Makes one of us," he remarked in what was clearly supposed to be one of his dark, dry Barton jokes. When she didn't smile back at him, he sighed. "Nat, I tried to kill you. You're really going to sit here and tell me you trust me?"

"It wouldn't be the first time you've tried to kill me," Natasha deadpanned. "That's how we met. Remember?"

Her question seemed to trigger something in him by the way he irritably shifted beneath the covers and let out another sigh. "Yeah, Nat, I remember."

"Hey. _Hey_, I'm not trying to attack you. I'm just…" Natasha paused, and she blew a breath out between her lips as she reached up with a hand and ran it through her messy short red hair. "Jesus, I don't…I'll be honest with you, Clint. I don't know what to do right now. This is definitely not how I pictured seeing you for the first time in four months going."

"Trust me…this isn't what I envisioned, either." Clint's natural humor returned as he flashed the tiniest of smiles in her direction. "Honestly, Nat, I don't know what to do any more than you do."

"Fury's going to want to talk to you. He'll want to debrief you and hear your official statements as soon as possible," Natasha replied. "He won't care that you're one of the best damn agents he has. He'll want to get the information from you while it's fresh."

"I know." Clint ran a hand through his short hair and looked away from her. "And he doesn't exactly take no for an answer."

"Isn't that the truth," Natasha drily answered. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be." Clint shot her a dismissive glance as she shifted into a sitting position, crossing her legs in front of her and pulling herself upright.

"Look, I'm not going to push you to talk to me about it if you don't want to. If you're not ready, you're not ready. You know I understand that more than anyone else, and I will be here for you as soon as you want to talk. But Fury's not going to be as understanding. He's—he's Fury. He's about efficiency and secrecy and keeping things quiet and under wraps. He's not going to go easy on you," she said.

"You think I don't know that?" Clint narrowed his eyes slightly, as if he couldn't decide whether or not she was a threat. "Because believe me. I know he's going to push me to talk about that son of a bitch."

"I'm not your enemy, Clint," Natasha said quietly. Clint paused, and he looked at her with wide, clear eyes as he processed her words. Then he frowned, the worry lines of his forehead marring the smooth plane of his face.

"What'd he do to you?" he asked, more curious than anything else.

"Ordered me to round up the Avengers. Didn't throw me in prison back when he should have. Anything and everything," Natasha quipped. Pressing his lips together, Clint shook his head.

"Not Fury," he protested. "Loki. What'd he do to you? You said you were compromised back on the helicarrier when I asked you before. What'd he do?"

Natasha hesitantly wet her lips as she thought about whether or not she wanted to open up to him. Truth be told, she wasn't sure how he would react when she told him—ultimately, she knew she'd tell him one day what had happened, if not today—and that was what made her feel more apprehensive than anything.

"Nat." Clint's voice was soft and encouraging, reminding Natasha of all the times he'd stayed awake with her when she'd had a nightmare, when she'd failed a mission, when she'd had a bad day. She remembered each and every single time when he'd held her and murmured nonsense to her just because he knew the sound of his voice made her feel the just the tiniest bit better.

"We don't have to talk about this right now," Natasha said, careful as she watched his reaction. Clint frowned, instantly concerned.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked. His muscles started to gather as the tension crept in with anger.

"No. No, no, no." Natasha shook her head quickly to appease him. Out of habit, she moved to touch his shoulder, his face, any part of him, but she stopped herself. His gaze landed on her hand, but he didn't make a move towards her or away from her. Again, they were at an impasse. "He didn't hurt me. He…he just—he got in my head."

"I think he's good at that," Clint replied tonelessly. "But just because he didn't hurt you on the outside doesn't mean he didn't hurt you on the inside."

"Might want to think about listening to yourself," Natasha said, her voice gentle as she offered him a hint of a smile. That seemed to be all that they could muster up for each other—hints of smiles, hints of laughs, hints of who they were four months ago. "How's your head doing?"

Clint glanced at her with appreciation for changing the subject, and he went with it, his entire body visibly relaxing as he rolled with the change. "It's ok. You've always packed a damn good punch."

"Good." Natasha smiled. "Your leg?"

"Painful, but I'll manage."

"That's what I like to hear. Going to live, Barton?"

"I think so. You, Romanoff?"

"I think so. Want coffee?"

"God, I knew there was a reason why I love you." The words fell so easily out of Clint's mouth that it was almost as if he hadn't even said them. And truthfully, Natasha might not have paid them much mind on a regular day, but today, she didn't let them escape. She just looked at him.

_I love you, too_, she wanted to say.

_You're not ok_, she thought.

_I missed you_, her mind whispered.

"Good," Natasha said, her throat tightening so that the "d" at the end of "good" didn't come out all the way. It had been a while since she'd heard him tell her he loved her, and she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until he'd said it just then. Even though he'd been allowed to have contact with her while he'd been taking care of the PEGASUS project, he actually hadn't had much time to talk to her between their schedules and the time difference.

Both she and Clint eased out of the bed and started to the door in order to get coffee. She made sure to stay a respectful distance away from him just in case he felt too uncomfortable by her proximity, and she made sure to walk where she could see every move he made. It wasn't that she thought he would actually hurt her, but she knew he would feel better if he felt that she was looking out for herself, so that was what she did.

"We should probably go downstairs at some point to the main level. See what everyone else is doing before Loki's send-off," she said out loud as they crossed into the kitchen. Deep down, Natasha was impressed with Stark's tower. Even if she hadn't known that he'd been the mastermind behind it, she would have been able to tell that it was his design just by the way everything was arranged. Tony Stark certainly had a recognizable style in everything he did—that was for sure.

"You're right," Clint admitted. As if they were at home and this were a regular day, Natasha sat down on one of the stools by the kitchen counter while Clint started opening cabinets in order to find the coffee. "Dammit. Where does Stark keep his shit?"

"Check the one by the fridge," Natasha replied without hesitating a beat. Clint crossed over to the cabinet and opened it, turning back to give her a surprised look as he saw a large container of what was probably the world's most expensive coffee because Stark didn't go for anything less than that. She smiled at Clint's curious expression as he started to get the coffee going. "One of the tricks I picked up as Natalie Rushman. Stark always kept his coffee in the same place."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that," Clint remarked, his eyes glued to the coffee. "I don't know why, but I always do."

"I try to forget about it, too." Natasha leaned her elbows against the counter and watched Clint go about making their coffee. She'd learned a long time ago that he was the one who should handle anything and everything in the kitchen. She could do a few things like make stir fry and spaghetti, and she'd even been known to bust out some break 'n' bake cookies whenever she felt particularly adventurous, but the kitchen was Clint's territory—he was more than happy to take care of the cooking, and she was beyond thrilled to eat his food.

"Tell me about the team. I mean, I got to meet them a bit yesterday, but I was too tired to remember much," Clint prompted.

"Stark's an ass, but he's surprisingly noble, Rogers is everything you'd expect him to be, Banner keeps to himself and has kind of started up a bromance with Stark, and Thor talks like he's straight out of a Shakespeare play, but that you already knew," she filled in. She caught the way Clint paused for a half a second, his shoulders tense, before he continued making the coffee. "New Mexico?"

"What?" he asked in a casual voice.

"New Mexico. You kind of met Thor then?" Natasha watched every muscle in Clint's back go tight, as if he were about to let an arrow loose.

"I know," he replied. "Coulson almost had me shoot the guy. Thor's a tank."

Suddenly, a lump filled Natasha's throat as she realized that Clint didn't know about Coulson. Oh, God, Coulson. How the hell could she have forgotten about Coulson in the midst of everything? She clasped her hands together, squeezing tight as she felt a wave of pain and grief rise up from her center. She had forgotten the most important thing of all—fuck the Chitauri, and fuck Loki, and fuck the rest of the Avengers—none of that seemed important anymore.

"Clint," she said. She used the tone that she knew would make Clint drop everything and turn to look at her. And sure enough, as soon as the sound of his name had passed between her lips, he stopped setting up the coffee, and he turned over his shoulder so he could face her. "There's something I—I didn't tell you."

"Natasha?" He was so confused. He didn't know what was going on, and it sent a sharp stab through Natasha's chest as she watched him hold onto the last bits of a world that had a father figure in it.

"Something happened right before the fight with the Chitauri," she said. She didn't feel as though she were speaking—it wasn't actually her saying that horrible sentence, forming the next horrible sentences in her head. "It…I don't—"

"Don't spare my feelings, Natasha," Clint said quietly. "Tell me."

"Coulson died." Natasha watched those three syllables hit Clint square across the face. She watched his eyes widen and his face go still. She watched the wheels in his brain stop turning, his breathing slow, and his hands clench. She watched the poetry of his grief begin, and there wasn't a thing she could do to stop it. "Loki killed him."

"Goddammit." Clint closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. "God_dammit_."

"Loki stabbed him."

Clint opened his eyes, staring intently at Natasha. "Did you see it happen?"

"No." Natasha shook her head and looked down at her hands. Suddenly, she was unable to look at him. She couldn't look anywhere else but at her hands as she clenched them together in hopes that maybe she could stop her blood from flowing. "I just heard about it on the comms afterwards."

"Fuck." Clint rubbed both hands over his face. "_Fuck_. Fucking hell." His face hardened, and he glowered at Natasha. "Why the hell didn't you say anything sooner?"

"I'm sorry, but I was trying to keep the world from being destroyed by fucking aliens!" Natasha snapped fiercely. "Then after that I was worried about you, and then we were here, and I didn't think about it until just now. I'm sorry. If I'd remembered sooner, I would have told you."

"How can you _forget _something like that? You don't—God, it's not—you can't just—" Clint stopped talking, and he ran his hands over his face again. "Jesus Christ. Fucking Christ. That son of a bitch. I'm going to—I swear to fucking _God _I'll kill him if it's the last—"

"Killing him won't solve anything, Clint," Natasha flatly interrupted. He stared at her with an incredulous, wounded expression on his face.

"Are you listening to yourself?" he asked. "Seriously? You want to talk about how killing doesn't solve problems?"

Natasha's green eyes flashed with anger, and she was up and out of her stool in a heartbeat, leaning over the edge of the counter as if she were going to leap all the way over it to physically advance on him. "Don't you come at me with that. I'm not trying to attack you, Clint, so stop attacking me."

"Jesus." Clint turned away from her and walked back to the counter. Slow and controlled, he placed his hands on the counter and then didn't move. Natasha wanted to get up and go to him, but all she could do was sit back down on the stool and lean her head into her hand. "Loki really killed him."

"Yeah. He did." Natasha silently thanked the forces of the universe that she didn't really believe exist for not having let her been there for the moment Loki had shoved his scepter through Coulson's heart. She wasn't sure that she could have gotten over seeing it when she was having enough trouble getting over the fact that Coulson was dead.

"I'm surprised you'd forget something like that." Clint knew exactly how to get under her skin, and he chose that moment to whip out his best tools. Sharply, Natasha looked up at him and found him staring at her with an accusing look that didn't suit his beautiful, trusting, open face. It looked foreign and wrong.

"I didn't tell you so you could jump all over me," she said. And despite how hard she tried to keep her voice from shaking, halfway through her sentence, she faltered. Before she knew it, tears started to well up in her eyes, and she glared at Clint with what she hoped was the same kind of accusation he was sending her way. "I told you because I want to be here for you and have you be here for me. The way we always are."

She pressed her lips together hard as she lost the battle with her tears. Before she knew it, two quiet streams of tears trailed down her cheeks. Clint stared at her with shock, almost as if he hadn't ever considered the possibility, and then he looked ashamed. He moved forward so that he was on the opposite side of the counter, facing her.

"God, Nat," he said tightly. Natasha saw his deep blue eyes swimming with a tumultuous mixture of emotions she couldn't even begin to understand but somehow did, and she bit her lip as she tried to get control over her emotions again.

"He's done so much for us." Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and she found that she just couldn't speak without dissolving into little pieces. She couldn't do that, not when Clint needed her to be there in one piece, so she forced her breath to come in and go out. "I know this is cliché, but…I keep hoping this is a bad dream, and I'll wake up, and I'll be back in our apartment. Not here."

"Natasha." Clint always said her name as if he'd never said anything more beautiful before mumbling those three syllables. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to focus on how he sounded whenever he called her a name he'd helped her choose seven years ago. And it was then when her eyes were closed that he touched her. Just like that. One second she was floating, a separate piece, a solitary, weightless being, but then the next second, she felt Clint's large, rough, warm hand close over hers. "You're ok. It's ok."

"Is it?" Her eyes opened, and she stared helplessly at him, all the while hating herself for not being as strong for him as she should have been. He searched her face in an attempt to find an honest answer. Swallowing, he shook his head.

"No," he admitted. "It's not."

"Right," she whispered with a tight nod. "It's not."

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

"Don't." She firmly shook her head and sniffed as quietly as she could manage, but in her mind, it was a much louder sniff than she ever could have dreamed of making.

"I don't know what to do." The admission was out before Clint could think to keep it to himself. Natasha blinked before she nodded, a slow, thoughtful nod that didn't make Clint feel ashamed or alone or anything he'd been afraid of feeling in letting her know the truth.

"I don't, either," she murmured. "That's why I always turn to you. Because we're a team for a reason. We work better with both of our heads."

It wasn't much of a consolation, but it was enough for Clint. He nodded just once as he listened to her, his eyes dancing down to glance at their hands. How long had it been since he'd touched her? _Really _touched her? How many nights had he lain awake halfway across the country with the memory of her skin playing out across his fingertips? Far too long and far too many.

Quietly, Clint let go of Natasha's hand, and he walked around the counter until he was right by Natasha. She gazed up at him with large, watery eyes, and even though he didn't trust himself, he couldn't watch her pain and do nothing to stop it. That wasn't who he was—that wasn't how he loved her. And out of everything he sucked at, he didn't suck at loving her.

As if he thought he were going to break her, he lifted a hand and placed it on the side of her face. His touch was light, but it was everything she had missed, everything she had needed but hadn't been able to have. But she had it now. Clint was there with her, and he was touching her so lightly she couldn't help the extra surge of emotions that pulled at her chest and sent another quiet stream of tears down her face.

He took another step forward and brought his arms around her. Just like that, after he'd spent all of last night and this morning trying not to touch her for fearing of triggering something only he could see in his head, he was holding her. Natasha quietly leaned into him and squeezed her eyes shut, slipping her arms around his waist to hug him back. He still smelled the same beneath the shampoo and soap Stark had provided last night—like cleanliness and bow oil.

She tried to think of something comforting to say, but she couldn't think of anything. All that she could think of was how happy she was that he wasn't dead like Coulson. She just couldn't get her mouth to move to say it, so she did what she did best. She stayed silent. Besides, despite everything, she figured that Clint already knew.

And he did.

* * *

><p>By the time the coffee was done, Natasha and Clint pulled themselves together enough to take the elevator downstairs to see what everyone else was doing. The two assassins walked onto the main level of the Tower, armed with their mugs of coffee, and they looked around at all the destruction and chaos that had been caused by the Chitauri invasion yesterday. Natasha didn't fully remember what had happened to the Stark Tower to make it look so beat up, but with all the damage done to the inside, she could only imagine how annoyed Stark must have felt at having to clean up.<p>

"Mission Impossible, we're over here."

_Speaking of Stark_, Natasha thought with an inward sigh. She glanced off to the left where the voice had come from, and she saw a tired Tony Stark, accompanied by an equally tired Bruce Banner.

"We're the only ones up right now," Stark said as she and Clint crossed towards them. "I see you found the coffee. How do you like it? I've changed my brand since you worked for me."

"You—you worked for him?" Banner asked in surprise. Natasha tossed Stark a mild look before half-nodding and half-shrugging in Banner's direction.

"I was undercover to make sure he didn't die," she replied.

"Didn't do a very good job of it. I almost died like, 30 times," Stark argued. Natasha thought about arguing with him, but she chose not to. It was too early—actually, she didn't even know what time it was—and she was too tired. "Anyway, I don't hold it against you. You don't suck every other day of the year, I guess."

"Thanks," Natasha deadpanned. "And I like the coffee just fine."

"It's good," Clint added. "Strong."

"You take your coffee black?" Stark curiously added. Clint nodded once, his face showing that he had no idea where this conversation was going. "I judge people on how they take their coffee. You pass. How do you take yours, Black Widow?"

"Black," she replied, even though that wasn't entirely true. She took her coffee black whenever she was around people she didn't know all that well, but when she was with friends, she took it with one cream and one sugar. Stark seemed satisfied by her answer, however, and he nodded once.

"You pass, too," he said with a smirk. "We all pass."

"What's SHIELD going to do about city clean up?" Banner asked calmly. Natasha glanced at Clint. He was better at answering questions like that than she was, so she brought her mug up to her lips and took a swallow as he got the hint that she wanted him to answer.

"Send in as many clean up teams as possible. All SHIELD-issued. They won't trust anyone on the outside to do it for them. They'll also bring in scientists and specialists to deal with the alien stuff," Clint explained. He smirked at Banner's surprised face. "They've handled stuff like this before. This isn't 100% brand new territory for them."

"SHIELD's dealt with aliens before?" Banner asked with pure shock written all over his face. Clint wryly grinned in response, and he nodded.

"Yeah. I guess you missed a little bit while you were away, doc," he said. "But SHIELD's dealt with aliens. I actually kind of knew Thor back before yesterday's incident. I was in New Mexico at one of the bases on an assignment, and Thor showed up."

"Jesus," Banner breathed. "I had no idea that all of this is a bit of a repeat. How long ago was that?"

Clint paused, his face completely still. Natasha watched the wheels in his brain turn, but she could see from the way he was suddenly at a loss for words that he was having one of those weird moments that he'd had earlier. Cool and casual, he turned to look at Natasha. "How many years ago would you say that was? It was pretty recent."

"It was last year," Natasha replied. She saw Clint's expression change so subtly that had she not known him as well as she did, she would have missed it.

"Yeah, pretty recent," he added. "Pretty recent."

"Was that even in the packet we got? I promise you—I read the entire packet cover to cover, and I don't remember seeing that. I mean, yeah, I remember reading some stuff about Thor, and I vaguely remember reading something about him coming to Earth, but there wasn't a lot of detail about it," Stark replied.

"I don't remember anything being in the packet, and I read it front to back, too," Banner added.

"Ok, so it's not just me? Thank God. So what do you think about all these secrets SHIELD's been keeping, Doctor?"

Natasha took another sip of her coffee as Stark started going off on how SHIELD always kept everything a secret. However, she didn't listen to a single word that the billionaire said—instead, she thought about the two weird moments she'd seen from Clint just that morning. He'd acted weird when she'd brought up Barcelona, and then he'd frozen up over the Thor question.

Glancing over at him, she saw him looking collected and put together, but she knew that he wasn't. He didn't want to talk about Loki just yet, and that was ok—she could live with that, and she was more than willing to wait for him. But there was something else going on with him that he didn't want to share with her, and that was what worried her. Clint wasn't telling her something, and she of all people knew what the price of secrets held. And the worst part was that she knew he did, too. He was just choosing not to tell her.

Sure, they didn't tell each other everything. They were spies with shitty backgrounds, and they didn't need to tell each other every little detail about their lives. However, Natasha couldn't help thinking that there was a difference between a secret and something you just didn't want to share. And as she looked at Clint, as she studied his face, she simply couldn't shake the feeling that Clint wasn't anywhere near as ok as he said was. There was something going on with him, something in the way that he froze up whenever certain things were mentioned, that was a result of what Loki had done to him.

Again, it struck Natasha that she had no idea what to do. For the first time in a very long time, Natasha Romanoff was completely and thoroughly unprepared.


	3. Debriefing

**Shoutouts to pengineer, Maite Sanchez, yornma, EpicPackage, AmeliaSkellig, beverlie4055, Guest, josmi1351, Nikki, Eva7673, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**So far, so good, it seems. The general consensus is that everyone's enjoying this version much better, so I'm glad. I didn't get as much feedback as I hoped I would, so for you silent readers, I hope y'all are enjoying this, too.**

**We start to really get into the plot of this story, and we have the return of a character that I think everyone will be happy to see again. Or at least I hope!**

**I had a question about the length of the story and if I'm going to continue this series after this story. At this point, I have no idea the length. I was originally planning on writing a third part that deals with Clint and Natasha after _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_, but at this point, I'm starting to rethink it, so I can't say if there'll be a third part at this moment in time.**

**For extra moments, listen to "Harbour Lights" - A Silent Film =)**

**Please, please, please leave feedback. It's so valuable and important, and I'm still pretty unconfident about just kind of everything right now. Like I am, but I'm not. So please let me know what you think!**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 3<p>

"Clint."

"Clint?"

"_Clint_."

Clint lifted his head and looked over at Natasha, who was staring at him with an ambiguous expression. He had missed seeing her facial expressions over the past few months. The stereotype of Natasha Romanoff was that she was emotionless, cold, and stiff, but what people didn't realize was that her expressions were always moving, always changing. She hid her emotions by revealing them for the world and everyone else to see, and that was what made her so successful as a spy. You never knew what she was truly feeling because she showed you every possibility of what emotion could be happening inside her. Honestly, she was a work of art in and of herself, and he never got tired of admiring the view, inside and outside.

"Yeah?" he asked casually.

"I've been talking to you," she replied without accusing him. "Where were you?"

"Thinking about stuff," Clint said, and he shrugged. "I'm here, though."

"You ready?" she asked.

_No_, Clint thought.

"Yeah," Clint said. "I'm ready."

"Keep your head about you, ok?" Natasha said, glancing out the window of the black SHIELD car they were currently sitting in.

"Of course I'm going to keep my head about you," Clint agreed, sounding mildly offended. "I hate the son of a bitch, and I'm not sure I've ever wanted anyone dead as much as I want him dead, but I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize his trip back home."

"Good," Natasha replied.

"Are _you _good?" he countered. She shot him a look that told him he shouldn't have asked that, but she nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered. "There's no reason why I wouldn't be fine."

"He messed with you, Nat. You still won't tell me what he did, but he did something to you," Clint said.

"Yeah, well, who hasn't," Natasha replied on a sigh. She looked over at him and frowned a little bit. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but he knew that his efforts would be in vain—he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't tell him because she didn't want to bleed on him when he was already bleeding. Her strength was admirable and foolish all at the same time, but he couldn't find himself wishing that she would be any different because truth be told, at the end of the day, he did the same thing.

"We should probably get out now," he said.

"Yeah," she agreed. They were silent for a few seconds, just looking at each other and not knowing what to do. Getting out of the car meant having to face Loki, the person who had made Clint his personal bitch, the person who had killed Coulson. Getting out of the car meant that he and Natasha were both exposed and vulnerable, two things that they hated to be. If he could have gotten up some place high and just shot an arrow through Loki's eye, he would have considered the day a day wells spent, but he knew that he'd get in a shit ton of trouble. Therefore, he would have to content himself with the fact that Loki would be facing the Asgardian justice system, a system that he hoped was far more brutal than the American system.

Then Natasha surprised him by making the first move. She held her hand out to him, her palm turned up and fingers spread. An invitation. Ever since he'd woken up in one of the medical rooms on the helicarrier and seen her standing there beside him, Clint had been terrified that he was going to hurt her. Every time he looked at her, he remembered Loki making him tell him things, Loki showing him memories that Clint wasn't even sure existed, Loki ordering Clint to kill Natasha.

That was the memory that haunted Clint the most. He remembered Loki ordering him to kill Natasha, and he remembered the cool apathy he'd felt in regards to planning out exactly how he was going to do it. Swallowing hard, he pushed the thoughts out of his head—he couldn't think about them just then, especially not when he was about to look Loki in the eye and let him go without an arrow sticking out of him.

So he picked up his hand, and he laced his fingers through with Natasha's. Right away, he felt his entire body relax. He felt his muscles loosen and his heart rate slow down, and he had to physically force himself not to close his eyes. He'd been avoiding Natasha's touch for fear of snapping on her, but her touch was always what calmed him down the most. Her callouses were warm and soft in his palm, and he pictured them running over his face, the way she liked to touch him whenever she was feeling particularly affectionate.

"Ready?" Natasha asked quietly. Without verbalizing a response, Clint nodded. When Natasha let go of his hand, he felt a sinking regret, but he didn't linger on it. They were still quiet about their relationship when it came to work, preferring to keep it to themselves, no matter how many junior agents whispered back and forth their opinions on whether or not they were sleeping together.

Clint opened the car door and stepped out into the sunny afternoon sky. He took a deep breath and watched the rest of the Avengers gather together to say good-bye and to send Loki off. Off to the right, there was a SHIELD van that Clint knew was used to transport prisoners, and he knew that that was where Loki was. His guard instantly came up out of habit, and he felt the tension start to creep back into his shoulders.

Quickly, he and Natasha crossed the street to join the others. He caught sight of the doors of the van opening, and he made sure he didn't look over at it. First, he needed to distract himself before jumping straight into the whole Loki thing. Dr. Banner nodded towards him, and he nodded back.

"STRIKE Team: Delta," Stark greeted. "Nice to see you again, as always. Even though I just saw you like, half an hour ago back at the Tower."

"Stark," Natasha greeted with a head nod. "Long time, no see."

"Why didn't you show me you had a sense of humor when you were working for me?" Stark asked with one of his characteristic smirks. "It probably would have made the betrayal feel less painful."

"Oh, you got over it," Natasha replied, smiling slightly.

"Next thing I know, you'll be telling me that Barton over there was also in on the whole plan and was perched somewhere ready to snipe my house." Stark looked over at Clint with a look that was clearly joking but conveyed that he was also waiting for an answer of some kind. Clint thought back to two years ago when Natasha had been undercover as Natalie Rushman. What had he been doing at that time? Suddenly, there was a blank wall where his memory should have been, and he felt a quick stab of panic in his solar plexus. This had been happening to him whenever he'd tried to remember certain things, but he hadn't said anything to Natasha about it. Some things he couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried, and he realized then under Tony Stark's scrutinizing stare that he didn't remember what he'd been doing while Natasha had been Natalie Rushman. For all he knew, he really could have been stationed outside Stark's place with the intention of sniping any threats, but he just could not fucking remember.

"You know it," Natasha said quickly when she realized that Clint wasn't about to answer any time soon.

"Yeah," he said, forcing his tongue to work. Natasha's tone was sarcastic and dry, and he was able to use that to determine that that hadn't been what he was doing. But had he been up to? Had he been at home, waiting for her to finish up in California? Had he been assigned on another mission? The panic continued to rise up inside him as he forced himself to breathe. "That's exactly what happened."

"I can never tell with you spies whenever you're telling the truth and whenever you're just fucking with me," Stark deadpanned.

"Part of the job description," Clint quipped. He started to say something else, but Stark nodded to something back behind the archer's head.

"There he is. He's beauty, he's grace, he's Mr. Kill the United States," Stark said. Calmly, Clint turned over his shoulder and watched Loki being led out of the van and towards the circle where everyone was standing. Thor crossed over to Selvig to talk about something, and Loki was left to his own devices. From the looks of it, the Frost Giant wasn't going to be able to just bolt and run—his hands were locked in some kind of cuffs that made SHIELD's taser-cuffs look like fuzzy handcuffs from a sketchy sex shop, and his mouth was covered with a slab of metal so he couldn't speak.

Clint casually exchanged a glance with Natasha, and without saying a word, the two crossed over to Loki. Loki's cold blue eyes regarded them without resentment or annoyance—if anything, he just looked indifferent to everything. He turned his gaze onto Clint, who stared back at him from behind black sunglasses. This was it. This was the fate of the man who had gotten inside his head and fucked with him so much that he was afraid to touch the woman he loved. This was the last chance he'd have to ever say anything or do anything to him. He thought of everything he could say, every possible little hateful word that he could come up with, and yet, nothing seemed good enough. Attacking him verbally and/or physically now seemed childish and petty, and Clint realized that he was above it.

Suddenly, Natasha leaned in to him so that only he could hear. "He looks like a damn dog with a muzzle on, doesn't he? All you have to do is picture him in the pound, and he looks harmless."

A smile tugged at the edges of Clint's mouth, and he was half-tempted to say fuck it to their mutually agreed upon rule to keep their relationship quiet just so he could put his arm around her and pull her in to him to plant a kiss on the side of her head. However, he didn't. He simply turned and walked away with Natasha by his side.

"We have our debriefing after this," he said quietly to her.

"I know," she replied. "It'll probably take the rest of the afternoon."

"What do you say we do after that? Order in dinner?" he asked.

"Yeah. We should do Chinese. We haven't had Chinese in a while." Natasha paused. "Well, _I _haven't had Chinese in a while. You've been at PEGASUS, so I can't really speak for you."

"Chinese it is," Clint confirmed.

"Oh, look." Natasha nodded towards the action happening behind him, and he turned over his shoulder to see that something was going on with Thor and Loki. They looked like they were getting ready to leave, and everyone was backing up into a circle, so he and Natasha did the same. Clint watched Loki take one side of the thing Thor was holding, and he kept his eyes glued to the Frost Giant. It was hard to believe that Loki had been able to control him with just one touch to his chest. One touch, and everything that had made up Clint had been gone.

Thor and Loki twisted their ends of the metal object they both held, and then the Bifrost took them away. Just like that, they were gone. Clint couldn't help feeling as though it were anti-climactic. For whatever reason, he'd been expecting this big spectacle with lots of…something. He didn't even know what. But as he looked up at where the Bifrost had just come down from, he couldn't shake the fact that he felt just as empty as he had before.

"We've got to go," Natasha murmured from his side, breaking his stream of thoughts.

"Ok," he replied without giving anything away. "We have Banner's stuff still, right?"

"Yeah, it's in the backseat. I'll get it and give it to him," she said, her eyes lingering over his face as she quietly studied him for any kind of clue as to how he was feeling.

"I'll get the car started," he said. He didn't particularly feel the need to tell these people good-bye. If he knew Fury, he knew that Fury would bring them together again some day in the future. Besides, Clint wasn't too big on good-byes. Neither was Natasha. They always said good-bye to each other whenever they had to leave for missions where the other wasn't assigned, but their good-byes were never anything dramatic. They'd kiss and hug, and maybe he'd snatch a quick last kiss on her cheek before either she or he ran out the door to go to Headquarters. But for the most part, they didn't really do good-byes.

The two spies crossed the street back to the car, Clint ducking into the driver's seat and Natasha opening the backseat door to pull out Banner's duffel bag. As he started the car, he started mentally preparing himself for the debriefing ahead of him. Natasha's would be relatively short—she would be in and out in no time at all, but Fury would want to talk to Clint for hours. He would want to get every little piece of information he could out of the archer, and quite honestly, Clint didn't want to talk about it just yet. If he couldn't find the words to tell Natasha, how on Earth would he find the words to tell anyone else?

Right on cue, Natasha opened the passenger door and slid in. "Ok, I'm good to go if you are."

"Perfect." Clint checked his rearview and side mirror before easing out smoothly into main traffic. Thankfully, people weren't exactly out and about on the streets of New York after everything that had happened yesterday. Even if they were in a part of the city that had remained relatively untouched by the Chitauri, there weren't very many people walking around. "Now I can't stop thinking about Chinese."

"Yeah?" Natasha smiled. "Me neither."

"I didn't have any when I was working on PEGASUS. Actually, I didn't have any good food in general while I was there." Clint knew he was talking about anything and everything because if he didn't, she would ask him how he was doing or why he had frozen up when Stark had made that comment, and he didn't want to do that just then.

"Well, you're back, so we can gorge on Chinese food and amazing cuisine all you want," Natasha replied.

"I can't wait to get started," Clint said. "I also can't wait to see Noelle."

Natasha let out a quiet laugh. "I really do think you love that cat more than you love me. I'm not even kidding when I say that. And remember, you were the one who was so against having her, and now you love her."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Clint replied with a smirk. "But I don't love her more than I love you. I love all my women equally: my bow, you, and Noelle."

"That's so weird you call your bow a she," Natasha murmured, shaking her head as she looked out the window. "I just don't get you sometimes, Barton."

"Welcome to my world, Romanoff." Testing the waters, he reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. She turned her head, looking down at the physical contact they'd made, and she lightly squeezed his hand to acknowledge the gesture. Reluctantly, Clint took his hand away. Even if people weren't out as much as they usually were, it was still New York, and he still had to drive the way he had to in New York.

But as he took his hand back and put it on the steering wheel, he couldn't help thinking that it was a step. That touch had been a step in the right direction. And yet, he wondered if he were just lying to himself. He'd done it before, and he could do it again.

* * *

><p>"Agent Barton." Director Nick Fury stuck his hand out and shook the archer's hand. "Glad to have you back with us."<p>

"Glad to be back," Clint replied in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. "I'm just ready to get this debriefing over with as soon as possible."

"I thought you would," Fury answered. He nodded towards the chair in front of his desk, coolly regarding Clint with his eye as he watched him take a seat. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Sorry I shot you," Clint blurted out before he could think about whether or not he should say the words. "I thought I should apologize."

"Shit happens," Fury said, though he kept watching Clint with a close eye. "So talk to me, Barton. What happened?"

"Well, I think everything's pretty straightforward," Clint said blandly. "He touched that scepter to my chest, and then I just kind of…got put on the back burner. It was like someone had pressed a button in my brain, and I switched modes."

"Do you know how Loki's scepter works?" Fury asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. Clint gave a rueful snort and shook his head as he crossed his leg over his knee.

"Director, with all due respect, I'm a carnie from po-dunk Iowa. I don't know shit about anything," he said, hating how his voice came out much more bitter than he'd planned. Director Fury nodded once as he processed what Clint had just said.

"The scepter's magic. That goes without saying. It's Asgardian and does all kinds of shit we've never seen before." Fury paused and stared hard at Clint. The archer felt the urge to shift in his spot, but shifting showed a sign of actual discomfort, and he didn't want to give Fury any kind of indication that he wasn't perfectly at ease. "Barton, did Loki ever say anything to you about future plans?"

"No, sir," Clint replied with a shake of his head.

"Nothing?" Fury prompted. Clint frowned and continued shaking his head as he tried not to feel irritated and frustrated with the director who had helped turn his life around.

"Nothing, sir," he insisted. "I only asked questions when I needed to know the answers. That wasn't one of the answers I needed."

"How much did you tell him about SHIELD?" Fury asked. "I need specifics on this, Agent Barton."

Clint paused, inhaling deeply through his nose and then exhaling, the way he did whenever he was about to make a difficult shot. He pictured that zen place he reached when in the middle of practicing with his bow and arrow; he pictured being up some place high with nothing but air and miles and miles of land around him; he pictured Natasha's hand in his, her hand on his cheek, her hand brushing through his hair. And in a clear voice, he said, "I compromised you, your search methods, and everyone else who is a part of the Avengers Initiative. If that's what you're asking, sir."

"And you wonder why I don't believe your just-a-boy-from-po-dunk-Iowa routine," Fury mused with the closest thing to a smirk that Nick Fury could make. Clint kept his face devoid of any emotion, noticing that Fury was still watching him as if he thought Clint were the most fascinating subject he'd ever seen. "How are you doing after all that?"

"What do you mean?" Clint asked, even though he knew exactly what Fury meant. "My leg's a little banged up, but for the most part, it'll heal."

"You know what I mean," Fury said, his tone unyielding. For the hundredth time since he'd walked into the director's office, Clint wished he were anywhere but there. Well, he would prefer to stay in Fury's office as opposed to being in Loki's makeshift headquarters, but that was probably the only other place he would give a pass on.

"Honestly, sir, I feel fine," Clint lied. "A little shaken, but who wouldn't be from something like that?"

"I spoke to Thor on what the aftereffects on a human would be, and he didn't have positive things to say," Fury replied, and he tilted his head to the side. "He said that humans would most likely experience panic attacks, flashbacks, mood swings, memory loss, and bouts of violence." He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, he didn't quite word it so medically, but you get the gist."

Innocently, Clint shook his head. "I really do feel fine. A little tired, but I'm not experiencing any of that."

"You're sure?" Fury stared skeptically at the blond archer, who just nodded in response.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I'm very sure. Different experiences affect individual people differently. You were one of the people who taught me that lesson firsthand."

"You are right about that, Barton," Fury agreed. "I'm just concerned. It doesn't exactly make sense in my mind that one of my finest agents who's been mind-controlled by an alien, thereby resulting in shooting his boss and nearly killing his partner and best friend, is suddenly fine without any repercussions."

"There are repercussions," Clint politely argued, feeling the tension creep back into his body, no matter how hard he tried to look cool and relaxed. "I'm just tired. I feel like I need a week of sleep, and then I'll be as good as new."

Fury blinked at him, and then he looked down at a file in front of him. "If you say so, Agent Barton." He looked back up, narrowing his eye as he studied him hard. "But I'm trusting you word. Don't give me a reason to regret it."

"Have I ever, sir?" Clint allowed himself to smirk at the director, meriting a half-eye roll from the man.

"You've definitely tried," Fury drily answered. "Alright. You're dismissed. Send Romanoff in."

Clint lifted his eyebrows in surprise, and he blinked once. "I'm—I'm done?"

"Yes, you can go." Fury didn't glance up from the file. Clint paused, a frown starting to form on his face, and when Fury noticed that Clint hadn't gone, he looked up at him in irritation. "What?"

"I just…I thought this was going to take longer," Clint slowly replied, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing, saying, or thinking.

"You answered all the questions I needed, and you said you're doing fine. I trust that. You can go," Fury said. Slowly, Clint nodded, and then he stood up.

"Director Fury," he said suddenly. Fury stopped skimming over the item on his desk, and he looked up at Clint with a sudden weariness on his face that Clint hadn't expected to see there.

"Yes, Agent Barton," he said.

"How did you know about me trying to kill Agent Romanoff?" Clint asked. He was careful to keep his face and voice under control; if he showed any sign of being unstable or unsure, Fury would court order him to mandatory therapy sessions and mandatory leave, and Clint didn't think he could handle either of those. He could deal with this on his own—he'd dealt with plenty on his own before. He'd gotten through 32 years of his life without desperately needing time off, and he would be damned if he were forced to take it now. If he kept busy, he wouldn't think about what had happened. If he had to take the time to slow down and think about it, to talk about it, he didn't know what he would do.

"I saw the video footage," Fury replied, not giving anything away.

"Right," Clint said without faltering. Swallowing, he cleared his throat and gave a nod. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll send Agent Romanoff in."

"Yes. Send Natasha in," Fury replied with an unreadable glance in Clint's direction before looking back down at the file that had so suddenly captured his attention. Confused, surprised, and unsure as to whether or not that meeting had actually happened, Clint stood up and walked out of Fury's office. His mind swam as he tried to keep up with the results of the meeting—he'd expected to be in there for hours, answering questions in detail about what he and Loki had talked about and what being under Loki's control had felt like. He'd expected to be raked in front of the coals, but that hadn't happened at all. Fury had just asked some questions and then let Clint go.

Clint walked out into the hall with a frown on his face. There sitting on a bench with a blank look on her face, was Natasha. She had that look she always got whenever she was zoned out. She looked calm, expressionless, and relaxed. Clint's movements caught her attention, and she turned her head to face him, her red hair brushing against her chin.

"You're done so soon?" she asked, frowning. She stood up and walked over to him, always the initiator, never the person on the sidelines.

"Yeah, believe it or not," Clint answered with a shrug. "Fury said he didn't have much to talk to me about. I answered his questions, and that was it."

"Why?" Natasha asked, clearly just as confused as he was. Again, Clint shrugged, and he let out a quiet sigh as he did so.

"I have no idea," he honestly replied. "Believe me, I'm just as confused as you are."

"Shit," Natasha sighed. She lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. "Ok. My turn?"

"Yeah. Go get 'em, tiger." Clint smiled at her and waited for her to roll her eyes and say something snarky in response, but she just gave him a half-smile and nodded.

"Will do," she said. "I'll be out soon."

As she passed him, she let her hand brush against his. It wasn't a big, dramatic gesture, but it was enough. It was her way of telling him that she was with him, that she supported him and wanted him to be ok. It was her silent, discreet way of telling him that she loved him without verbalizing it or compromising their relationship in public.

Natasha walked into Fury's office and shut the door behind her. He was seated at his desk with his nose buried in a file.

"Come in," he said out loud to acknowledge her presence. Natasha crossed towards his desk and sat down in the chair that Clint had just vacated only moments before. She sat still in her seat and tried not to feel awkward as a quiet sense of waiting permeated the room. Truthfully, she was dying to ask Fury why he'd let Clint go—it wasn't typical of the director to give such a short debriefing, especially to someone who had undergone something as serious as Clint had. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but as usual, she didn't need to.

Fury shut the file and looked up. "Barton's a mess."

"Excuse me, sir?" Natasha asked, trying not to sputter or look too surprised. She felt her eyebrows start to crinkle together in a frown as she watched Fury's face grow serious.

"He's lying his ass off when he says he's ok," Fury bluntly replied. He scoffed at Natasha's wordless reaction, and he shook his head. "Don't try to play dumb with me, Natasha. You and I both know that he does this. It's his defense mechanism."

"Well…yes," Natasha said, slowly and carefully, unable to shake the feeling that she was betraying Clint by admitting it. "I certainly don't believe him when he says that he's doing ok."

"So we're on the same page. Good." Fury leaned back in his chair, and he folded his arms over his chest. "I'm sending you on a mission."

"What?" Natasha didn't bother hiding her shock. She gaped at Fury, her mouth open and her red eyebrows drawn tightly together. "Are you serious?"

"Before you get all lethal, listen to me for a second," Fury said coolly. "I'm sending you on a mission for a reason."

"Nick, I don't know if you haven't seen either Clint or me, but he's got a giant gash in his leg, and honestly, I could use a week off," Natasha snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. "I don't think a mission is what we need right now."

"Natasha, I'm trying to talk to you," Fury said irritably. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I'm sending you on an undercover mission. Infiltration. It should take at least three months."

"Three months?" Natasha's volume rose.

"Yes, three months. I know it's a long time, but Barton's the kind who needs his mind on something. And you're going to have a different mission," Fury stated, matter of fact. "You're going to watch him. Help him get his act together."

"Nick, you know I trust you, but I don't think sending us on a mission is the best thing right now," Natasha said slowly, keeping her voice even and emotionless. She stared at him and shook her head. "No. No, I'm not doing it."

"But Clint will," Fury countered with a knowing look. "And I know you won't let him go off on a three month undercover mission by himself when he's in this kind of state."

"That's manipulative, and I hate that," Natasha replied. She gritted her teeth together and ran a hand through her hair. Fury was right. Clint would jump at a chance to go on a mission, especially such a long one, and she couldn't sit back and let him go without her. Not when he was like this. Not when he needed her.

"But you'll do what's best for Barton. I know you will." Fury's voice was gentler, and Natasha found herself staring less reproachfully at him.

"You're still manipulating me into doing what you want, and I still hate it," she said tonelessly. "I don't like the thought of spying on Clint."

"You won't be spying on him. You'll just be keeping tabs on him while you three complete your jobs," Fury answered in a flippant tone. Natasha blinked and frowned, feeling like that was the only expression she was capable of wearing these days.

"Three?" she repeated. "I thought it was just—"

"Oh, no. It's not just STRIKE Team: Delta," Fury said with a low chuckle. He grinned and looked at her, clearly enjoying the moment. "I'm calling in someone else who I think will be good for getting Barton back on track, though that won't be his mission."

It hit Natasha then who he was talking about, and she gave Nick a look. "He just got married."

"Doesn't mean he can't go on a mission," Fury argued with his grin still in place. "It'll be good for both you and Barton to have him back."

"Well," Natasha sighed. "It'll definitely be interesting to have Palmer back on board again."

"That's the spirit," Fury said. "How'd he take the news about Coulson?" Natasha shook her head and didn't say anything else. Fury took that as all the answer he needed. "The funeral's in three days. I'll see you and Barton there?"

"Of course," Natasha answered, and she looked away.

"Go call Barton in. You've got a week to prepare for this mission. No need to thank me." Fury pushed the file towards her and watched her face sink. "It's a simple mission. Infiltration. That's it."

"Isn't that always what's 'it?'" Natasha asked as she stood up. "It always starts out being simple but winds up turning into more. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do." Fury's expression grew a little harder. "Do you?"

Without answering him, Natasha turned over her shoulder and started towards the door to call Clint back in. Inside, however, she answered the question just to herself.

_Do you?_

_No_, she thought. _No, I don't_.


	4. Clinton

**Shoutouts to clarawithfizsimmonsin221b, Maite Sanchez, josmi1351, beverlie4055, JacquelineKennedy, AmeliaSkellig, Guest, loyal reader, Jo, pengineer, yornma, Nikki, books-n-cookies, MaddieFayeth96, and paranoid-mandroid for reviewing!**

**Again, so far, so good, it seems to be! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this more than WPD. To be perfectly honest, I'm enjoying writing it more than I enjoyed writing WPD, so it seems to be a good thing that it's a two way street. I'm also thrilled that everyone's happy to see Palmer come back! I missed him, too =)**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Reminder" - Mumford & Sons. (I know it's a repeat!)**

**Keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. They keep me in line and motivated, and they're super important!**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 4<p>

"So all this is is infiltration?" Clint scanned over the file in his hands as he read the plan thoroughly. "Seems like a lower level job to me."

"STRIKE Team: Delta is the best we've got when it comes to espionage. This isn't a mission we can send anyone less qualified on," Fury replied dully. Clint glanced up at the director without bothering to hide the delight on his face. So far, his day was going far better than he'd originally thought it would. He'd been planning on having a shitty day full of questions and demands that he couldn't supply the answers to, and yet, there he was receiving new orders to go on a mission. To say the least, Clint was thrilled.

"Ok," he said with a nod.

"I can't believe you're dragging Palmer out for this," Natasha spoke up, taking the file from Clint's hands and reading over it for what was probably the third time since Fury had told them that he was assigning them on a new mission. "He literally just got married like, a month ago."

"Kathleen will manage," Clint dismissively answered, meriting a small annoyed look from the redheaded assassin. "What? She will. She's gotten by without him just fine before."

"Well, before she wasn't a newlywed," Natasha argued. Her eyes landed on a sentence in the mission report that made her smirk, and she shot him an amused look. "Speaking of marriage, looks like we're married again."

"I thought about making you two brother and sister, but I figured that one would be a little harder to pull off," Fury deadpanned. Despite herself, Natasha grinned. She wasn't feeling terribly fond of Fury in that moment, but she could at least appreciate his sense of humor. She'd spent the last 10 minutes snatching the assignment report out of Clint's hands and reading over it in great detail just to make sure that there were no obvious loopholes.

From what she could tell, the mission looked easy. It was the kind of thing she and Clint had done millions of times before with little to no problem, and normally, she wouldn't have thought anything of it. This was just another simple mission that they could do in their sleep. And yet, even without touching Clint, she could sense his tension and tight muscles from her distance, and again, she was painfully reminded of the fact that everything wasn't normal. If everything were normal, she'd be back at the apartment getting caught up on some reading, and Clint would be still down at PEGASUS finishing up his time there.

But things weren't normal, and nothing was the same. Instead of reading a book for pleasure at home with Noelle on her lap, Natasha was reading a file detailing how she and Clint were supposed to infiltrate a land developing company that was developing land for a drug ring. The catch, however, was the fact that the drug ring wasn't a normal drug ring. The drugs that the ring was pushing out had been shown to contain traces of something Asgardian. Of course.

"I don't know, Director," Clint mildly replied with a glance in Natasha's direction. "I think we could make a pretty good brother-sister team. We kind of look alike."

"No, we don't," Natasha protested, wrinkling her nose a little bit at the thought of it. "God, don't even say that."

"So what's Palmer going to be doing?" Clint asked. "He's a tech guy. Not an espionage guy."

"He'll be covering your asses," Fury replied. "Making sure neither of you ends up dead."

"Why bring him back into the field now?" Natasha asked innocently, closing the file and looking back up at Fury. "He's been your head hacker for two years now. Hasn't been in the field for a while."

"And he hates field work," Clint interjected. "Barely passed his gun proficiency exam. Only reason I think he wasn't immediately kicked out was because he's so good with the whole tech thing."

"He mentioned possibly submitting a request to start up field work again, and I thought that this would be a good transition for him," Fury answered, no trace of irritation or annoyance at Natasha's knowing question showing on his face or in his voice.

"That seems odd," Natasha said, her demeanor still innocent. She blinked her green eyes calmly. "I wouldn't have thought he'd be that interested in field work right after he got married."

"His wife is still continuing her field work," Fury countered. Natasha could admit whenever she'd lost, so she pressed her lips tightly together and gripped the file a little tighter.

"Are we good to go?" she asked with a finality to her voice. Fury nodded.

"You're free to go. I'll see you in three days," he replied. Natasha nodded and stood up, feeling Clint's curious gaze on her. As she turned to exit the room, she avoided his questioning stare. She didn't want to have this discussion in Fury's office with Fury watching the two of them, so she walked out of the room and into the hall with Clint by her side.

"What's happening in three days?" Clint asked. Silently, Natasha swore at his sharp attention. Sometimes he was the sharpest person she knew, never missing details and always staying on top of his shit, but other times, he would zone out to a place in his head that only he had an access pass, too, and unfortunately, he hadn't been at that place in his mind when Fury had referenced seeing them in three days.

Even if Clint had missed that piece of information, though, she couldn't have hidden it forever. She knew she would have had to tell him at some point, despite how much she didn't want to. She looked up at him and saw the innocent curiosity on his face, the openness that she'd missed seeing there during the past 24 hours. "Coulson's funeral."

Instantly, his face shut down. His light blue eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened, and she could visibly see him put up a wall inside himself. "Nat."

"Clint, I've got to go," she said quietly. Turning her head around to see who else was in the hall, she took hold of his arm, careful not to grab him or yank him, and she guided him to a room across the hall. Clint knew by now not to be surprised how she knew rooms were empty—it was one of her many unexplainable talents that he could never figure out no matter how much he studied her. When she turned to face him, she didn't bother hiding the pain in her deep green eyes. "I need to go to Coulson's funeral."

"Ok," he said. Her face became expectant, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't. She lifted her eyebrows and released her cautious hold on his arm.

"That's all you have to say?" she asked. "Are you coming with me?"

"Nat…" He sighed and ran a hand over his face, suddenly not wanting to be underneath her piercing stare. "I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead just yet. We just got assigned a mission, and I've been thinking about this debriefing and sending Loki off…I hadn't even thought about it."

"Well, I'm going. With or without you," she said firmly. She watched him lower his hand down to his side as his eyes remained guarded. "But I don't want to do it without you. I really, _really _don't."

"I don't know if I can," Clint admitted. "I mean…Natasha…I don't know if I can physically go to his funeral and stand there and listen to people talk about the kind of man he was when I'm still trying to understand what happened."

Natasha swallowed, and her eyes flicked down to his chest and then back up, her expression painful. "I understand."

"Natasha, please…" Clint didn't know what he was asking her for, but he just knew he needed to ask for _something_ from her. He knew she understood—he at least hoped that she did—and he knew she wouldn't push him to if he honestly felt as though he couldn't, but he truly did not feel like he could go. His mind was turning every few seconds with thoughts of Loki, of how to get him out of his brain, and he didn't know if he could trust himself to go to a funeral when he was still so…so not _him_. And yet if he couldn't convince Nick Fury that he wasn't himself, he was risking more than he even knew. Gritting his teeth together, he nodded. "I won't let you go alone."

Unexpectedly, Natasha's face fell in on itself, and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest as she looked up at him with sincerity and gratefulness written all over her beautiful features. "Thank you."

"Nat…I'll always come through for you." Clint hesitated, but then he held his arms out from his body, opening up an invitation for her to go to him. And she did. She didn't pause, she didn't think about it, and she didn't treat him as if he were broken and couldn't make up his own mind about whether or not he wanted to touch her. She simply stumbled into his arms and buried her face in his chest and circled her arms around his waist. "Tasha."

"I love you," she said suddenly. She hadn't planned to say those familiar three words, but she'd said them. She held her breath as she waited for Clint's reaction, closing her eyes to shield her hurt if he pushed her away, physically or emotionally. But he did neither. Instead, he tucked his face against her temple and inhaled deeply.

"Tasha…Tasha, I love you, too," he murmured, rubbing her back as he tightened his arms around her. "I love you."

"Clint—Clinton…" She tilted her head up towards his mouth, needing to kiss him and taste him and feel his breathing so close to her. She started to bring her hand up to face when she felt his entire body go still, tense and tight the way his bowstring was right before he let an arrow loose. Scrambling, Clint quickly backed away from her and turned, his face shielded.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath. "Fucking hell."

Natasha watched him as he crossed towards the opposite side of the room and put his hands against the wall, leaning into them with his fists flat and square against the solid surface. She swallowed and folded her arms over her chest to hide the vulnerability she felt from being so suddenly exposed. "Clint."

"Dammit!" He smacked the heel of his palm off the wall before turning around to face her and lean against the wall, his head falling back and his face tipping upwards to the ceiling. Natasha was unable to do anything—all she could do was stand still with her arms covering her center as she tried to think of how to handle him. Out of all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen him like this. She'd never seen him so out of touch with himself, angry and uncontrolled. She'd never seen him as a loose end before now.

"Clint, he's not in your head," she said without thinking. At this point, she didn't know what to do. She had no idea how to handle the aftereffects of alien mind control, so since she had no earthly clue on how to deal with this, she just started talking. "I don't know what you had a flashback to or what you heard, but you're ok. You're going to be just fine. Ok? Do you hear me?"

"Dammit, Natasha," he growled as he lifted both his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "This is why I don't trust myself around you. I'm not safe to be around right now."

"That doesn't scare me," Natasha countered. He lowered his hands and peered over at her as if he were seeing her as someone he'd never seen before. They were both silent as they looked at each other, neither of them moving more than the rise and lower of their chests with every breath they took.

"It scares me," Clint finally admitted. As he stared at her, he thought of how he could possibly tell her what he'd just experienced. He wasn't a man of many words to begin with, even if he had been, he didn't think that he could find the words to describe the flashback he'd just had at the use of his full first name. How could he tell her of Loki bringing forth his worst memories, memories he'd worked so hard to keep down and out of sight? How could he tell her that he couldn't get a grasp on what memories were actually memories and what memories were put there by the Frost Giant?

He didn't like his full name, and she didn't like nicknames, but when they loved each other so much it hurt, those two names were what they retreated to. Clint called her Tasha, and she called him Clinton. That was how it'd been for years between the two of them, and they'd been comfortable with it but only with each other. Natasha was the only person who could get away with actually calling him Clinton, just like he was the only person in the entire galaxy who could pull off Tasha without a scathing glare and a biting remark about how names were there for a reason.

But Loki had taken that softer memory out of Clint's brain the way he'd taken Clint himself out. It was hard to describe—even for Clint, who had gone through it. Loki had taken Clint back to his memories from his childhood, listening to his father shout and call him Clinton before laying into him with his fists. Then Loki had taken the memory of Clint's father and melted it into the memory of Natasha whispering Clinton in his ear—now that Clint was rational, he could see that Loki had been doing it to fuel the determination Clint would have needed to kill Natasha. To follow through on the orders Loki had given him.

"You're ok," Natasha repeated to him. Clint looked away from her again and down at the floor just so she could see the top of his blond hair. It was strange that she knew him so closely that she could identify his defensive behaviors probably just as well—if not, better—as he could. Whenever he wouldn't look her in the eye, he was purposefully guarding himself, and that was exactly what he was doing just then. He hung his head low as if he were ashamed and embarrassed, and Natasha got a view of what he must have looked like as a little blond boy with all the sunshine in the world filling his eyes to the brim.

But the image in front of her was not Clint Barton the smiling kid who could melt her heart like no other—she was faced with Clint Barton and how he must have looked as a young child whenever he felt like he'd fucked up. Her instinct was to cross towards him and touch him, but she knew better than to do that. He didn't trust himself to touch her, and if that was the trigger for him, she would be damned if she did that to him.

"Hey," she said softly to him. He didn't look at her, but she knew he was listening. "Let's go home. Ok?"

It seemed like he wasn't going to answer, but then he finally nodded and stepped away from the wall still without looking at her. "Ok."

He slowly crossed towards her, and she made sure that she left a large enough space between them for him to feel comfortable. He was shaken up by whatever it was he'd remembered, and if space was what he needed, then Natasha would give it to him. Whatever he needed, she would provide.

* * *

><p>"Noelle! Daddy's home! Did you miss me? I sure missed you."<p>

"Oh, Clint, don't encourage her." Natasha sighed as she watched Clint excitedly take the small grey cat from her carrier and hold her in his arms. She turned back to Allison from down the hall and smiled at her. "Thank you for watching her on such short notice. I know it was probably inconvenient."

"Oh, no, not at all!" Allison replied, beaming brightly and flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder. Natasha caught the way the blonde's eyes darted back behind Natasha to Clint, and she tried not to smirk. "Anytime."

"Well, in about a week, we both have some more work things to do. Would you mind watching her again? It'll be a bit longer, though," Natasha said. Allison's eyes came back to Natasha, and she shook her head with much more enthusiasm than she should have had in the evening, in Natasha's opinion.

"I don't mind at all! How long are you talking?" she asked.

"Three months at least," Natasha deadpanned.

"I know, I know. I missed you, too," Clint's voice came from behind her. Allison blinked in surprise, but she didn't falter.

"Wow, that's a long time, but I would love to watch her again," she said. Natasha smiled, feeling how heavy and exhausted and hungry she was as she leaned against the doorframe.

"Awesome. Well, I will bring her over when we're about to leave. I'll see you, Allison. Thank you so much again," Natasha replied in a tone that meant the conversation was clearly over. Undeterred, Allison just smiled and nodded.

"Of course! I'll see you guys later. Bye, Clint!" she called past Natasha's shoulder.

"Bye. Thanks for watching Noelle!" Clint called back. And just like that, Allison was gone, the door was shut, and it was just Natasha, Noelle, and Clint. Natasha let out a breath as she locked the door to the apartment and leaned against it. She liked Allison from down the hall a lot, but the girl was so happy that sometimes it was exhausting trying to act just as cheerful and excited as she was. Allison also had a pretty obvious thing for Clint, but she'd never made a move on it, something that Natasha appreciated and respected. "Look, it's Mommy!"

"Seriously, don't encourage her," Natasha murmured, but she crossed towards the archer and the cat that had somehow consumed a large part of her life, and she lifted a hand to scratch the cat behind the ears. Noelle closed her eyes, her purring loud, and she leaned into Natasha's touch. In a way, it reminded Natasha of Clint whenever she played with his hair. That was probably his one big weakness, and he definitely looked like a cat getting scratched behind the ear whenever she ran her fingers through his hair. Actually, no, Natasha thought silently to herself. He looked like a golden retriever. A large, sweet golden retriever who just wanted to be pet all the time.

"What are you thinking about?" Clint asked softly, his voice still light in the same way it was whenever he talked to Noelle. Natasha glanced up at him.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"You've got your thinking face on, and you look like you're thinking something funny," Clint replied. Natasha looked up at his face and watched him look lovingly at Noelle. The difference in him between now and an hour ago was amazing. It'd taken him from the time she'd suggested going home to now for him to calm down, but it had been seeing Noelle again that had brought out a hint of his pre-Loki spirit that she loved so much.

"I was just kind of thinking about how you do that thing cats do when you scratch behind their ears but when I play with your hair," she said. Clint's face softened, and he gave her a small smile.

"I guess I can see that," he admitted. "It just feels really good."

"But then I was thinking about how you remind me more of a golden retriever than a cat, so I was amusing myself," Natasha added as she continued to watch his face. Noelle shifted her weight in his arms, meowing as she did so, but once she got comfortable again, she closed her eyes and kept purring while Natasha kept petting her.

"I can definitely see myself being a golden retriever more than a cat," Clint agreed with such solemnity that Natasha couldn't help falling a little more in love with him. It was always the moments like this that took her by surprise because they showed her the kind of man Clint was. This was the type of person who was taken seriously for his skills, whose razor sharp focus and aim had given him an unbeatable reputation. That was who Clint Barton was. But he was also the type of person who asked Natasha if she'd judge him for wearing the same flannel two days in a row, who referred to himself as Daddy when he talked to Noelle, who gave her the best hugs from behind. He was every ounce as goofy and lighthearted as he was serious, and she loved all of him, but it was these little moments in which he sincerely considered whether he thought he was more like a golden retriever than a cat that really struck her.

"Remember the very first time I brought her home?" Natasha asked with a grin. She watched Clint's face go very, very still, and his blue eyes flashed with the briefest panic, but he didn't falter much more than that.

"Mmhmmm," he replied confidently, but she could see past it. He'd been acting weird whenever she brought up certain memories, and she had a theory, but she didn't want it to be right; she also didn't want to jump to any kind of conclusion when he'd only been back with her for maybe 48 hours at the most.

"How many years have we had her again?" she asked innocently. She knew that they'd had Noelle for three years, but she wanted to hear Clint say it. With a sigh, he set Noelle down and turned away from her, walking towards the kitchen.

"I don't know," he replied in a vague tone. "All the years kind of run together for me."

"It was right after we got back from the Switzerland mission, right?" Natasha asked, testing the waters. Clint turned to face her with a look of dawning on his face.

"Yeah," he said. "That was three years ago. We've had her three years."

"Right," Natasha agreed. "That's what I thought."

"Want the usual for Chinese?" Clint asked, changing the subject like a pure pro. Natasha paused and watched him pull out the Chinese take out menu from their favorite place. He leaned over the counter in the kitchen and skimmed over the items before glancing up at her. "Nat?"

"Yeah. Yeah, the usual for me," she said softly.

"Ok, just checking. I'm getting my usual, too. Want me to call?"

"Yeah, you can call. I could eat about now." Natasha watched him pull out his cell phone and dial in the number of the Chinese place. Honestly, he probably knew it by heart, and yet he always looked at the back of the menu. She tried to figure out what exactly was going on with him since he didn't want to tell her, but she knew deep down what the truth was. Some things—like her usual order for Chinese—he could remember. Other things he couldn't. She didn't know what Loki had done to him, but what she _did _know was that Loki had left behind a man whose memories were now as twisted and gone as the Frost Giant himself.

Natasha wasn't the praying type, nor did she believe in Hell, but if she had been, she would have prayed to God for the day that she would meet Loki in Hell.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Natasha lay on the couch with a full stomach and heavy eyelids as <em>Parks &amp; Rec <em>played on the TV. "What time is it?"

"A little after 9:15," Clint answered, his hand lightly resting on her ankle. Just like that, they were having a relatively normal moment. Natasha was curled up on her side on the couch with her feet resting against Clint's thigh while he sat upright on the other end of the couch. This was how they always watched TV together when Clint wanted to sit and Natasha wanted to lie down—Natasha felt silly for noticing these things, but she held onto them as tightly as she could.

"I'm so sleepy," she murmured as she stifled a yawn. "I think I'm going to pass out now."

"Yeah?" The weight of his hand on her ankle felt so nice and so natural that Natasha wanted to stay like that forever if it meant that he still felt comfortable enough to touch her, even if it was just for this moment.

"Yeah," she replied. "Care to join me?"

"I'm probably going to stay up for a while. I'm not really tired," Clint answered, his voice genuinely regretful. "Hopefully watching some boring TV will tire me out."

"Ok," she said. "Do you want to be alone?"

Clint was quiet for a few seconds as he thought the question over. "No."

"Ok," she replied. She thought about adding something else—anything else—but she couldn't think of anything to say. Like Clint, she wasn't a woman of words, and when she couldn't find the words to say, she just didn't. So she dropped her head back down to the soft couch pillow and closed her eyes. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

She slept so soundly that she didn't notice Clint get up and leave the couch, nor did she notice when he returned and carefully touched her as he spread a blanket over her to keep her warm. She wouldn't notice until two hours later when she woke up to the sounds of Clint's memories.


	5. Steps

**Shoutouts to Guest, Aunt Siduri, EpicPackage, AmeliaSkellig, Jo, Guest, pengineer, beverlie4055, MyPerfectEscape, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**Uh oh. This is probably the least amount of feedback I've gotten in a while. I totally understand that people get busy, but y'all are starting to worry me!**

**I think that this is a chapter we've been waiting for for a while. One of my all-time favorite characters is back, and from the reviews I've gotten, it seems like everyone else is excited to see this character come back, too =) There are also some other things, particularly towards the end of the chapter, that I think people have been waiting for. I definitely know that I've been waiting for it! Kind of =)**

**If you want extra emotions, listen to "Brothers on a Hotel Bed" - Death Cab for Cutie!**

**As always, please keep leaving feedback. I hate reading Author's Notes where the author begs for reviews, but I really, really appreciate knowing what you guys have to say.**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

The sounds woke Natasha up before the movements did. She was sleeping peacefully without any dreams whatsoever when she heard a sound in the conscious world around her that sounded strangely like choking. And she was very familiar with how choking sounded. A sharp jerk shook her, and she knew that the sound hadn't been her imagination. In a flash, she was awake and moving into a defensive position when she saw Clint, his body stiff and his muscles tight. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing too hard to just be sleeping.

"Clint," she said out loud, knowing better than to touch him while he was asleep and so obviously distressed. "Clint! Clint, wake up!"

Within seconds, Clint jerked awake and whipped his head about him wildly, his eyes unfocused and glassy. Natasha watched him come back into himself, but she didn't move. She stayed on the couch beside him with her senses alert and her eyes glued to every part of his body just in case he tried to attack her in his semi-unconscious state. His chest heaved with each breath he took, and Natasha saw the glisten of his wet cheeks in the dull blue light of the TV.

"Natasha," he breathed.

"Clint," she said back, her voice just as quiet as his. He gaped at her with huge, emotion-filled eyes. Slowly, he moved forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and he placed his forehead into his hands.

"Jesus," he gasped out. Quietly, Natasha sat still and watched Clint pull himself together. The best way to handle an emotional Clint was to let him work it out himself—as much as she wanted to jump in there and heal everything for him because she couldn't stand to see him in pain, she knew she couldn't. So she sat silent and waited for him to come through this new swell of emotion he'd dug up in his sleep. She wanted to ask him to talk to her, to tell her what was going on in his head, but she knew it was just as useless to get him to talk to her in this state as it would have been if their roles were reversed. All she could do was sit still and wait for him.

_I'll wait for you_, she thought.

_I'll wait as long as you need me to_, she considered saying.

_I'll wait until you tell me not to, _she silently said.

She waited and waited, and finally, Clint's shoulders loosened, and his breathing slowed. He lifted his head out of his hands and looked over at her. "You don't have to wait up for me."

"I know," she replied softly. He eased back carefully into the cushions of the couch and tilted his head back towards the ceiling. She could see that his face was now dry, but he looked like death, even so. As the comparison passed through her mind, she froze. How close had she come to losing him to Loki? Had she been merely seconds away from losing him forever? Days? Years? In just seconds, Loki could have taken him from her, and she was suddenly paralyzed by the realization that Clint could have very well died.

Her breathing caught in the back of her throat, and Clint looked over at her. Even when his brain had been fucked with by an alien he could still look so strong and silent and steady, she thought to herself. Neither of them said anything, but finally, Natasha moved. She quietly stood up and walked to the kitchen and pulled out two mugs. As she started filling both mugs with water, she could sense Clint still sitting on the couch, but she could no longer feel his eyes on her. She moved methodically about the kitchen as she took the mugs over to the microwave and set them inside. After punching in two minutes, she stepped back and nearly tripped over Noelle, who was staring up at her with hopeful eyes.

"Kitty cats can't drink tea," Natasha murmured to the cat, bending down to scratch the top of Noelle's head. Satisfied, Noelle contented herself by rubbing against Natasha's legs until the microwave timer went off. Natasha pulled the mugs out and grabbed two tea bags from the drawer by the stove, dipping a bag in each mug before crossing back into the living room.

Clint looked a little more put together, but that wasn't saying much, considering the fact that he still looked like a mess. He looked strong, but he looked like a strong mess. Gratefully, he accepted the mug she handed him and watched her as she sat back down in the spot she'd occupied just moments before. As Natasha settled back into her cozy seat, she noticed the blanket lying haphazardly on the couch. She hadn't put a blanket on herself before falling asleep—she'd been way too tired. The only way it could have gotten there was Clint. Her throat tightened again, and she quietly cleared it.

"Thanks," Clint said finally, looking down at his mug.

"Tea fixes everything," Natasha replied. Had he been his usual self, he would have scoffed and made some remark about how coffee was the life source for everything, but tonight, he just stared at her with unsteady eyes and accepted her statement. "Remember that mission in Glasgow when I was so sick?"

She watched his face for any sign that he wouldn't remember, but he surprised her by offering up a half-grin and a nod. "Yeah. I remember."

"I couldn't stop throwing up, and we were supposed to go to that meeting to establish our cover," Natasha said, returning his smile. "You made me tea and rubbed my back."

"I did." Clint's smile seemed more relaxed, more genuine now. "You were really fucking sick."

"You're a better nurturer than I am," Natasha replied.

"Well, I had my brother to take care of me when I was sick as a kid," Clint said by way of explanation, shrugging his shoulders as if he were suddenly embarrassed or shy. Shyness didn't suit him—he was self-assured and confident, sometimes bordering on the edge of cocky. But shy? That wasn't Clint Barton, and it was odd for Natasha to see him looking uncharacteristically shy and self-conscious.

Then again, it wasn't all that characteristic of Clint to talk about his brother. Every so often he did, but for the most part, he didn't talk about Barney Barton. Natasha wasn't sure if it was because Clint didn't have anything to say in regards to his older brother or if he purposefully avoided the topic as a general rule, but she never asked. She never asked to know anything Clint wasn't willing to share.

For a few minutes, neither she nor Clint spoke. They simply sat there beside each other with their hot tea and their dancing thoughts without saying a word or making any kind of noise at all. And yes, it was a rule Natasha had for herself to never ask Clint anything he didn't want to talk about, but she decided to break her own rule and go forth with the question on her mind, the elephant in the room. "What were you dreaming about?"

Clint looked at her from over the edge of his mug, and he swallowed the sip of tea he'd just taken. "Not a dream. Flashback."

Carefully, Natasha studied his body for any signs of tension or stress, but he seemed no worse than he had just a moment before. "To your time with Loki?"

"Yeah." Clint nodded stiffly, his jaw shifting from side to side. With his free hand, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Something he showed me."

Natasha wanted to ask what Loki had shown him, but she saw from the look in Clint's eyes that it was better not to ask, so she didn't. Clint took another swallow of his tea, and she just sat quietly. Clint had a much higher tolerance for hot liquids than she did—she liked to wait until her tea or coffee was uncomfortably warm but not hot. However, Clint only waited about five minutes before he started drinking, and even then, he'd maybe wince or remark on how it was hot, but that didn't stop him from drinking it.

He lifted his mug and drank some more steaming hot tea, and it was just that gesture which broke Natasha's resolve. Carefully and steadily, she moved forward so that Clint could see her every movement. His blue eyes watched her cross the short distance between them, and he turned his head to continue watching her as she moved slightly behind him and out of his direct line of sight. Still making sure that Clint could see her, she lifted her hand and placed it on his back. As she gently started rubbing her hand back and forth over the hard muscles that lay beneath his shirt, she saw him smile slightly.

"Our roles have reversed," he murmured. "You got me tea, and now you're rubbing my back."

"I think I can be a pretty good Clint Barton," Natasha replied, meriting that same quiet smile he was giving her. "Not as good as you. But close."

She leaned forward and rested her head against the muscled part of his shoulder. She knew she was risking a lot by doing it, but when he didn't move away from her, she stayed where she was. She just rubbed his back and breathed in the smell of him, trying to feel lucky for not having lost him.

* * *

><p>Three days later, Coulson's funeral came and passed as quietly as Coulson himself had. Natasha and Clint attended—Natasha in a tasteful black dress she only saved for SHIELD agents' funerals and Clint in his tailored black suit and dark blue tie—and listened to people talk about the kind of man Coulson had been. They listened to Maria Hill detail his bravery and his selflessness, and they listened to Fury talk about Agent Phil Coulson's sacrifice for his country. Natasha didn't cry, and neither did Clint, but plenty of others did, including Pepper, who silently let tears stream down her face the entire service. When the funeral ended, Natasha and Clint went back to their DC apartment and stayed in the rest of the night, the both of them ignoring any and all texts and calls that came their way.<p>

Over the next two days, STRIKE Team: Delta made their presence known in the Triskelion as they prepared for their new mission. Clint managed to get back in the training rooms, something that honestly surprised Natasha since he was averaging about two hours of sleep per night, but she didn't say anything to him. His aim and everything still seemed to be perfect, so she kept any and all comments to herself.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until two days before they were supposed to ship out for their mission that they saw the third member of their party.<p>

"Word on the street said you guys were back." Agent Felix Palmer, head hacker and close friend, slid into the seat beside Clint in the cafeteria. Despite everything that had happened to him, Clint's face spread into a smile, and he shook his head as Palmer grinned brightly at him.

"You son of a bitch," he said. "Where've you been? We've been back for close to a week now."

"I had some shit to take care of in San Francisco, but I'm back now," Palmer replied. He let out a laugh as he looked at the two assassins. "Dude, when Fury told me I was going back into the field with you guys, it probably took me five hours to stop laughing."

"Oh, so working with us is funny now?" Natasha drily asked with a smirk.

"It's never boring. I'll say that," Palmer replied.

"How's Kathleen?" Natasha asked before taking a bite of her apple.

"She's good. This actually kind of works out well because she's being sent somewhere classified for a month, and I'll be off with you guys for three months," Palmer answered.

"_At least," _Natasha corrected. "So buckle up for the possibility of six months with us."

"Hey, I could be with worse agents on a worse assignment." Palmer shrugged. "We could be worse places, too.

"Like Texas," Clint added in a dull voice. Palmer half-rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his already unruly dark brown hair.

"Still the same Barton," he sighed. "So look at you two being all big and famous now. You were already a huge deal being the unstoppable STRIKE Team: Delta, but now we've got a pair of Avengers on our hands."

Natasha shot him as much of a warning look as she could get away with without making it obvious to Clint. "Well, like you said, our lives are never boring."

"Man, I can't believe we're actually working in the field together again. It's been years," Palmer said, his voice and face genuine. He always made Natasha think of a dachshund, and she smiled to herself as she was reminded of it all over again.

"Yeah, it has," Clint agreed. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and grabbed the tray in front of him. "Nat, need anything while I'm up?"

"No, I'm good, thanks," Natasha replied, watching him take his tray and walk away to take it back to the main line.

"How is he?" Palmer asked in a quiet voice. Natasha looked back at him with a blank face.

"Well…he's been better," she said vaguely. Palmer lifted his eyebrows and ran another hand through his hair, somehow managing to avoid knocking his glasses off.

"So that means he's not doing well at all," he sighed. "Ok. What the fuck happened to him, Natasha?"

"Honestly, and I mean this in all sincerity, I don't know," she admitted. She quickly looked back in the direction that Clint had disappeared in just in case he started coming back. "He hasn't talked about it. Fury thinks keeping him busy will be good for him, so he decided to wrangle up the whole team."

"Jesus," Palmer mumbled. "Don't get me wrong—I'm thrilled to work with you guys again because I think we make a good team, despite your and Barton's tendencies to pull all kinds of risky shit that would get normal people killed, but I don't know about Fury's call on this one."

"I don't know." Natasha caught sight of Clint walking back towards them, his face blank and focused as he worked his way back through the crowd of people. From what she was able to infer, Palmer didn't know that the mission they were all going on was supposed to be an opportunity for her to watch Clint, nor did he know that Fury had brought him back in as a way to possibly help Clint. He seemed to think that it was just an average, everyday kind of mission that Fury had put Clint on in order to keep him busy. "Hey."

"Hey. What time do we have to be here again for our flight out?" Clint asked as he slid back into his spot.

"5:00 A.M. Looks like we're waking up with the sun," Palmer replied while Clint made a grimace. Natasha thought it weird for Clint to act like he didn't want to wake up that early in the morning when he was usually up by that time, anyway. In all honesty, he was doing it more for Palmer's benefit than for hers, but it still struck her as weird.

His sleep patterns were so out of whack that they were starting to mess with hers. Typically, every night Clint went to sleep, but he was awake within half an hour due to some flashback or nightmare or something that he didn't want to talk about. And that was ok—that was fine. Natasha didn't want to push him to talk until he was ready to, but it was starting to get to the point where he was beginning to shut down on her. And that, Natasha couldn't do.

Just last night when he'd woken up the third time, she'd woken up with him and started to sit up when he'd looked over at her and shaken his head. "You don't have to."

"What?" she'd asked.

"Nat, please," he'd sighed. And then because she hadn't known what to do or what to say, she'd just let him sort out his problems by himself. As soon as they took one step forward, it seemed as though they took two steps back. The situation was almost funny, she thought to herself—all the years that he'd been the open one, and she'd been the landmine about to explode, and now their roles were reversed. He hadn't been kidding that first night back in their apartment when he'd pointed it out.

"It'll be fun," she said out loud as she pulled herself out of her thoughts. If she gave any kind of indication of looking like she was thinking about something else, Clint would ask her about it. And they both knew that that wasn't what they should do these days. The past week had been a strange, uncomfortable, unfamiliar existence between the two of them, and so far, Natasha hated it. They were intimate, but they weren't _intimate_. The walls were up, and their weapons were drawn, and she hated it with every inch of her soul.

But she didn't want to talk about what Loki had said to her any more than Clint wanted to talk about what Loki had done to him, so they were at a stalemate. They were always at a stalemate, neither one of them willing to give if it meant the other one was going to take. Natasha could barely remember the last time they'd been like this, but if she really thought about it, it hadn't been since she'd first been brought into SHIELD as an angry, unapologetic assassin whose only goal was survival.

"Venice. We've hit Venice before," Clint replied. "Thank fuck we didn't leave a disaster behind us."

"Like Budapest?" Natasha asked with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

"We remember Budapest two different ways, Romanoff," Clint said back. It had become a bit of a game between them every time they mentioned Budapest—Natasha remembered the mission, and Clint remembered after the mission. Truthfully, it had started back when Natasha and Clint had arrived back at the Triskelion, and Maria had seen them in the hall.

"How was Budapest?" Maria had asked.

"It was a nightmare," Natasha had deadpanned.

"It was awesome," Clint had replied. And ever since then, it'd just kind of become an inside joke between STRIKE Team: Delta.

Natasha looked closely at Clint and was able to see past the dark circles under his eyes and the light pink circles that surrounded the rims of his eyelids. If she looked hard enough, she could find the Clint who had helped her form inside jokes—she could find the Clint who had once been able to touch her without thinking twice. She looked past the pain and the exhaustion and the memories that seemed to be permanently etched into his face, and then she looked away before she got too caught up realizing the differences between pre-Loki Clint and post-Loki Clint. If she did, she knew it'd be too much for her to think about.

"Well, boys," she said as she looked back and forth between Clint and Palmer. "We might as well get back to training."

"Same Romanoff. Always focused on training," Palmer said with a fond smile.

"Isn't she?" Clint asked, his mouth sliding up into a smile only half-genuine as he looked at her.

Natasha looked straight back at Clint, her expression mirroring his as she said her response. "I guess some things never change."

* * *

><p>A good two hours later, Clint found himself wandering into Natasha's favorite booth in the shooting range. He'd spent enough time perfecting his aim and his stance—even though he really didn't need to—that he had decided to check in with the redheaded assassin to see how she was doing. Knowing her, she would have spent her time switching between an array of guns to keep her skills up, despite the fact that she didn't particularly need the practice any more than he did.<p>

"Hey," he said as he peered around the corner of the booth. Her headphones were on, and she couldn't hear him as she finished her round, but he knew she sensed him there. Just by observing the way her head position changed only half a centimeter, he could see her senses recognizing him. Patiently, he waited until she was done.

Turning over her shoulder, she glanced at him with her bright green eyes. "Hey. You done shooting?"

"Maybe." Clint shrugged in a nonchalant manner. "I just wanted to come see how you were doing. Check in with you."

The muscles around the corners of her mouth tightened and then released, and she set the Glock in her hand down on the ledge in front of her. "Miss me that much already?"

The tone of her voice was playful and wry, and he knew that she meant it as a joke, but he couldn't find it in himself to treat it like a joke. Folding his arms over his chest, he gave her a small smile and leaned against the wall of the booth. "Yeah."

Her face changed the way a butterfly emerges from a cocoon—unbearably slow but well worth the wait as soon as she arrived at her last expression of softness. "I was joking, Barton."

"I was apart from you for almost four months. That's a long time to be without my partner," he replied with an unashamed shrug.

"Well," Natasha said. She looked like she was going to say something else, but she didn't. She folded her arms in response, and she looked at him with a painful smile on her face.

"There's no one else in here, by the way," Clint said, gesturing with his head towards the rest of the range. "It's just you and me so you don't have to worry about any junior agents overhearing us."

He knew she knew he was trying—he could see her thoughts turning in her head as she tried to think of the best way to handle him. How had it come to this, he wondered. How had it gotten to the point where she had to think about how to respond to him because she was afraid of crossing any lines?

"Ready for the mission?" Natasha asked. Clint pressed his lips together briefly as he listened to the casual tone of her voice. Quietly, he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready to get out. I don't want to stay cooped up here any longer than I have to."

"I know," Natasha said gently. "Your brain works better when you stay on your feet."

"Exactly." Clint nodded. "What about you? You ready?"

"Yeah," she answered without batting an eyelash. "Venice should be nice. We're posing as a married couple. SHIELD's paying for us to live in a nice as shit house. I think I'm ready for that."

"Italian vacations, Italian food…I can definitely get on board with that." He knew he was talking just to talk, but he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to talk to Natasha, but he didn't know how anymore. He didn't know how to talk to her without wanting to ask her about what she'd meant about being compromised or wanting to ask her about how she was or wanting to tell her about everything going on inside his head.

"And maybe you'll find some new recipes for at home," Natasha added.

"Hey, Nat," he said suddenly. She blinked a little harder than usual, but she didn't stumble.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice quiet and soft and gentle and everything that he loved about her whenever she was Tasha.

"I—I just…I want—I—" Clint wanted to die. Nothing was coming out the way he wanted it, too, but now that he thought about it, he didn't even know what he wanted to say. Actually, that wasn't true. He knew exactly what he wanted to say; he just couldn't make his words form together in his head because he didn't know where to start.

"Use your words," she said, encouraging him. He lifted a hand and ran it over his face in frustration.

"I'm—I don't know—Jesus fucking Christ, I can't talk…I just…" He sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm glad you're my partner. I'm glad you're—I'm glad you're coming on this mission with me. I don't think I'd want to do it by myself. I—I _know _I wouldn't want to do it by myself."

"Clint…Jesus, Clint…of course. Of course I'd be with you." She took a tentative step towards him, her expression hesitant and curious as she tried to decide whether or not it was ok to touch him. He held his hands out to her to show her that it was ok, and she put her calloused, dangerous hands in his. "We're partners."

"Good," he said. He pulled her in closer to him and let his forehead fall against hers. It was the closest he'd been to her physically in days, but he wanted to be closer. She felt so perfect and right that he wanted to stay like this forever. If anyone could fix him it was her. But on the flip side, if anyone could remind him of Loki's orders to kill her, it was also her.

"Remember the mission in Barcelona?" she asked suddenly without pulling her head away from his. "That shot you made from the car window?"

Clint blanked. He didn't remember the shot at all. He didn't remember anything about the mission in Barcelona, but she looked at him so expectantly that he couldn't say no—he couldn't tell her the truth. If he did, the whole mission would be cancelled, and he couldn't risk that. So he did something he was starting to get very good at even though he wished he were horrible at it. He lied to her. Again.

"Yeah," he said. "Why?"

Something flickered through her eyes, but it was gone quicker than it came, and he couldn't call her out on it. She blinked and smiled at him. "I was just thinking about it while I was practicing shooting. Your aim has always been better than mine, and I was thinking about it while I was trying to improve."

"Only room for one of us with perfect aim," he said in an attempt to tease, but it felt artificial and strange. She smiled at him and then stepped away, her face reluctant and dark.

"I need to keep practicing," she said regretfully. "I should only be another half hour."

"Ok," Clint replied, swallowing the lump that filled his throat. "Ok."

"Ok," she said back. For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, unsure of the next move. Clint watched the apprehension and caution flood her face as each second passed, and then he couldn't stand it anymore. He reached out, and he grabbed her hand, and he pulled her in to him, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to.

But she didn't.

Instead, she let him pull her in tight to him, and she let him put one hand on her face and the other hand on the small of her back. But most of all, she let him kiss her. He kissed her the way he'd been wanting to kiss her for the past week—hell, the past _four months_. He kissed her and poured his heartbreak and his confusion and everything he couldn't say into his kiss.

And Natasha returned it. She met him with every ounce of passion and feeling she could release. Suddenly, he pulled back and looked at her with wide eyes, noticing the flush of her cheeks and the quiet way she inhaled and exhaled.

"Ok," he said.

"Ok," she replied, her face only slightly confused.

"I'm going to…" His voice trailed off as he backed away. All of a sudden, he felt like a kid in high school who didn't know how to talk to women, and he hated himself for it. This was _Natasha_. This was his partner, his best friend, the love of his life. He was used to talking to her about anything. But as he took several steps back, he just didn't know how to tell her what he wanted to tell her most: why he felt so guilty.

"Ok," she repeated. He started to turn over his shoulder when her voice stopped. "Hey, Clint?"

He looked back at her. "Yeah?"

She frowned, looking unsure of herself as her eyes scanned over his face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied. She nodded in response and then looked down as if she suddenly saw something fascinating on the floor that required her immediate attention. "Always, Nat. Even if…always."

Again, she nodded. "Ok."

As Clint turned and walked out of the shooting range, he felt the weight of her sadness, and it took everything in him to keep from turning around and looking back at her. If he did, he would never leave, and he just didn't trust himself enough to do that to either of them.

And above everything else, that's what scared him most of all.


	6. Homecoming

**Shoutouts to Guest, Rosay Chere Khann, sailorraven34, clarawithfitzsimmons221b, yornma, beverlie4055, pengineer, Aunt Siduri, princessjoey630, Black Betty, Jo, paranoid-mandroid, Eva7673, EpicPackage, Hawaiichick, xSuperNovax, Guest, MyPerfectEscape, Guest, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**Ok, after the amount of feedback I got on Chapter 5, I feel a little less anxious =)**

**Before you read any farther: WARNING - THIS STORY IS NOW RATED M. There is a sex scene in the first part of this chapter, so you've been warned about the rating change. I usually try to give a warning farther out, but this scene just kind of wrote itself. (Shoutout to loversandmadmen on AO3 for suggesting I go this direction with it!)**

**Quick note: I know that it can be frustrating that Clint isn't wanting to talk about what's going on with him, but PTSD is a tricky subject to handle. While it's easy to say, "Why doesn't he just talk to Natasha and tell her what's wrong?" it's not quite that simple, unfortunately. If you want to learn more about the symptoms of PTSD, I'd highly suggest researching it because that might make it a little easier to understand why I'm writing him this way! I've never been mind-controlled by an alien before, but I can imagine that it'd be pretty traumatic!**

**If you want extra emotions, listen to "Samson" - Regina Spektor =)**

**As always, keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. Whenever reviews drop, I always get nervous!**

**Enjoy! =)**

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><p>Chapter 6<p>

After Clint kissed Natasha, he couldn't stop thinking about it. They went back to their apartment together, and all he wanted to do was kiss her and touch her and use his mouth to tell her everything that was wrong but with kisses instead of words. If he couldn't whisper out the images and the memories inside his brain, he could melt them onto her skin. Neither of the two spies was great with words, but granted, both of them were fantastic with physical communication.

As they walked through the door of their old D.C. apartment they hadn't actually lived in for a few years but still kept, he watched her walk wearily into the kitchen and turn the oven on. "Homemade pizza sound ok?"

"I think I can be ok with pizza," Clint answered, a smile hinting over his mouth.

"Good. Because that's the one thing I can cook. That, spaghetti, stir-fry, and rice," Natasha replied. "Thank God we picked up a few things at the grocery store around the corner earlier this week."

"Yeah." Clint crossed to one of the counters in the kitchen and hopped up on it, perching on the edge with his legs dangling over the side as if he were a little kid watching the adults. Natasha opened the door to the fridge and pulled out pizza crust, cheese, sauce, and pepperoni. "Is the oven pre-heating?"

"Should be," Natasha said without glancing at the oven. Clint took a sneak peek and saw that it was, indeed, pre-heating. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and smirked as she finished opening the packaging around the pizza crust. "I'm not completely useless in the kitchen, Clint. I've made us pizza a thousand times before."

"I know." He watched her make the pizza, her nimble, sure hands spreading a light layer of sauce on and then sprinkling a mixture of cheese and pepperoni on top. Sure, pizza was easy to make, and Natasha wasn't a good cook, but he would have eaten her homemade pizzas for the rest of his life if it meant that he got to stay with her. Hell, he'd eat them every day forever and ever if it meant that things could get back to normal with them.

"I know you're staring at me," Natasha said out loud.

"I'm just watching you," he replied in a nonchalant tone. She peered up at him through her red hair, and the corner of her mouth twitched up.

"You have eyes like a hawk, Clint," she said. He listened for any sarcasm or bitterness in her voice, but he found none there. If anything, she was speaking truthfully.

"Hence the name," he offered. Sliding down off the counter, he turned and reached up to the cabinet to pull out a glass before crossing to the fridge and pressing the mouth of the glass against the water faucet. Behind him, he heard Natasha open the oven and stick the pizza in—his hearing might not have been perfect with his aids in, but it was good enough to pick up on those little moments—and he turned around.

Natasha moved towards him after she shut the oven door, and she leaned against the counter, pressing her hip into the marble. "We have about 10 minutes before it's done."

"Ok." Clint nodded. Despite how badly he'd been worrying about losing control over himself and hurting her, he couldn't help his eyes flicking down to her mouth and then back up to her eyes. And the worst part was that she saw. She noticed it by the way she pressed her lips together and deeply inhaled, a habit she had whenever she needed to take a few moments to clear her head and focus.

"Welcome home," she said. She tried to smile up at him, but it didn't fully reach the corners of her eyes the way her real smiles did. Carefully, so she could stop him if she wanted to, he lowered his head and moved in towards her. She stared up at him with unreadable eyes, and then when he kissed her, his mouth covering hers, she closed them. He kissed her softly and slowly, the complete opposite of how he had earlier in the shooting range.

Natasha took a step in towards him, and Clint helped her along by slipping one arm around her waist and drawing her in while his other hand went to frame her face. And just like that, they were kissing. Suddenly, Clint felt heat flood his body; he felt heat and desire, and he wanted her. He was wary of Loki memories coming back to haunt him, but honestly, he was having lots of trouble focusing on Loki when Natasha's body pressed against him demanded so much focus.

"Nat," he sighed into her mouth. Quickly, she pulled back to look at him. Her green eyes were dark and heady, and her lips were already swollen and pink from kissing him.

"Do you want this?" she asked in a breathless tone. "Are you sure, Clint?"

"Yeah." He gulped a breath down and nodded. "Yeah."

Without another word, Natasha yanked his head back to her mouth, and they were kissing again. There was something strange about it, though, Clint noticed. Every time he tried to tilt his head to the other side, she would accidentally make some kind of move that made their noses bump into each other. She wanted to kiss him slowly, but he wanted to kiss her hard.

"Bedroom," Natasha said, interrupting his thought process.

"Pizza?" Clint asked. She paused as she remembered it. Pulling away from him, she turned to the oven, slammed her hand against the panel to turn it off, and then turned back to face him. She retreated towards him and gently pushed his back to urge him forward.

"Let's go," she said. Clint didn't argue. Instead, he made record time to the bedroom, stripping his jacket and his shirt as he stumbled through the door of a bedroom he hadn't considered his in…how long was it? He paused as he realized that he couldn't remember how long it had been since he and Natasha had lived there. He tried to look for some kind of context clues in his memory, but he simply couldn't find a single one. "Clint?"

Natasha's voice brought him back to the present, and he realized that he was standing by the edge of the bed with his pants half-off while she was on the bed, almost completely naked. She looked up at him with concern on her face. "Are you—"

He interrupted her by leaning forward and kissing her roughly on the mouth. Before he knew it, her hands were shoving his jeans down past his knees, and she was grasping him through his boxers, and oh, God, she felt so good. A moan escaped his mouth, and he pulled his lips away from hers as his hips leaned forward into her touch. His head fell against her shoulder, but he didn't get to stay there long because in less than a second, she had his boxers down and her hand actually wrapped around his bare length.

Clint was already hard as a rock, but he felt himself grow harder as her hand worked him over. Careful so that she didn't stop touching him, he moved on top of the bed and on top of her, suppressing another moan. Natasha was so perfect—she was so perfect. As she continued to work him and kiss him, he put his hand on the inside of her thigh and pushed upwards, his fingers going to search out what she wanted. Right as he reached the space where her thigh turned into the base of her hip, she took his hand and pushed it aside.

Natasha had never turned down his fingers before; she had always readily welcomed them and expressed her love for them, but today, she didn't want them, and he couldn't be more confused. He paused and was about to pull away as he started to rethink what was happening, but she removed her hand from his and put it on his face by his ear. "I want _you_."

"Ok," he exhaled without argument. He could live with that. As he kept kissing her, it hit him that everything seemed to be happening so quickly. One second he had been clothed and drinking a glass of water—he didn't even know where that glass was now—and now he was naked and extended over an equally naked Natasha, who was now wrapping her legs around his waist and drawing his hips down to be flush with hers. He didn't know why it seemed like they were moving so fast—they'd been undressed and grinding at each other in much quicker time in the past-but his brain was spinning, and his eyes were swimming, and all he could really focus on was how badly his erection wanted to be inside her.

He reached down with one hand and lined himself up accordingly before glancing back up to check in with Natasha. Their eyes met, and she tilted her hips hard beneath him, causing the tip of him to sink very lightly into her. Clint could most definitely take a cue. With one push, he was inside her. Natasha's face twisted into a small wince, and he could feel that she wasn't quite wet enough yet. "Natasha—"

"No, no, no. It's ok. Go," she whispered and moved her hips in a way that made Clint realize how close he was to actually coming right then and there before he'd even had a chance to thrust. He pulled his hips back and away from her, and then he pushed them into her, sighing quietly as he did it. She closed her eyes and let her mouth open as she turned her head to the side and exposed her neck to him. To try to keep some semblance of control over himself, Clint kissed her in that spot he knew she loved right below her ear, and he began to pick up the pace.

Moving inside her was becoming easier, and there was less resistance as she became more aroused, but even so, something was off. He could feel by the gentle roll of her body beneath him that she was trying for something slower while he was increasing the pace and force of his thrusts. They weren't in sync the way they usually were, and he didn't know how to fix it. Right as he started trying to match her pace, she tried to match his, and they were awkwardly missing each other.

Natasha kept arching her hips beneath him right as he would pull almost all the way out of her, but then they never seemed to meet back up again. The pace was awkward, and nothing was going in the right direction, but Natasha had started kissing his shoulder in one of his favorite spots, so he could overlook the awkwardness a little bit. Right?

He began to push deeper and harder, and even if their rhythm was shot to hell, being inside Natasha still felt amazing, her quiet moans still beautiful. It wasn't long before he felt her tighten around him, and her body went rigid and still as her head fell back. Her red hair spilled across the pillow, a memory of blood against white, her hair against her skin. And at the sound of her low, tight gasp signifying her orgasm, he could no longer hold back. His own body went still, and he held himself pressed forward as far as he could push into her as he started to come. He came hard and quiet and long, spilling deep into her, feeling her grasp his shoulder blades beneath her firm, strong palms.

For a few seconds, Clint didn't breathe. He didn't move, and he didn't breathe. He simply held himself above Natasha just enough so he didn't crush her with his full weight. Then he felt Natasha's fingers dancing smoothly over his back, rubbing his heated skin as he breathed hard against her neck. Her heart thrummed beneath his chest, and he felt it slow as she came down from her orgasm and got her own breathing back under control.

Once Clint felt as though he had control over himself, he gently pulled out of her with a wince and rolled off and to the side so she could get up and go to the bathroom. He lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, trying not to feel like a failure. That had never happened with them before; they had never been so out of sync or out of touch with each other; even the first time they'd had sex, they'd been able to find a natural rhythm that had made Clint think from the very start that their bodies simply worked that well together. He lay completely still and thought about taking his hearing aids out because he didn't know what else to do. Now he just didn't feel like hearing, and he knew that signing wouldn't be an issue if he chose to remove them.

Natasha's soft footsteps against the wood floor made Clint turn his head to look at her as she came back to the bed. She kept her eyes averted from him, and she slid under the covers without saying anything, but she turned on her side to face him. As he slid underneath the covers with her, he felt her eyes finally lift up towards his face.

"So," he said. "That…that wasn't quite how I thought things would go. I don't…"

"It's ok," Natasha interrupted. She placed her hand on the side of his jaw and rubbed the forming stubble on the edge of his jawbone. "It's been four months. It's only natural that we'd lose some of our groove."

_But that's never happened when we've had to be apart for longer_, Clint thought. But he didn't say it. He kept that thought to himself and just nodded. Thank God he had the dignity to not ask her for a redo because that was what he wanted to do more than anything. He didn't know how to explain what had just happened between them, but it looked like Natasha didn't have the words, either. She just kept rubbing her thumb back and forth across his incoming facial hair, a non-verbalized question on her face.

Unable to see her look so un-Natasha-like, Clint draped an arm over her waist and pulled her in tight to him. Loki was far away from his brain for him to feel comfortable enough to be this close with her; Jesus, he'd just been inside her moments ago. He couldn't exactly use fear of hurting her to get out of being physically close to her when he'd just been as close to her as he could ever possibly get.

Natasha buried her head in his bare chest and put an arm back around him. "I have to tell you something."

_That's not good_, Clint thought.

"Yeah?" Clint prompted. She was quiet for a few seconds.

"I talked to Loki on the helicarrier," she finally said. She waited as every muscle in his body went still. "That's what I meant when I told you I've been compromised."

"What…what did he say?" he asked, his tongue suddenly feeling very thick and heavy in his mouth.

"He knew all kinds of things about me. Things I've never told anyone else," she said without having to specify that these things Loki knew had been certain stories she'd told only Clint. She looked up at his face and saw his expression becoming more and more distressed by the second.

"Oh, no," Clint said. Within seconds, he was sitting up and pressing the heels of his palms against his brow bone. "Fuck. Natasha…Nat, I'm so sorry."

"No, I didn't—Clint, I didn't tell you so you could beat yourself up over it," she said quickly as she moved after him without touching him. She looked at his strong muscled back and saw the light pink trails that her nails had left behind, and she swallowed hard. "I didn't want to add anything else to your load. I just…I wanted you to know."

"How the fuck do you trust me right now?" he snapped, suddenly feeling irrationally angry. She stared at him as if she couldn't understand why he was mad at her, and then her face hardened, the tell tale sign that she was starting to lose her grip on her emotions.

"Why are you mad at me?" she countered. "I just told you how I've been compromised, and now you're mad at me? That's really shitty, Clint."

She yanked the blankets up around her to cover her body, and Clint hated himself for doing that to her. He ran a hand through his short blond hair in frustration, and he sighed.

"Nat, I'm sorry. I didn't—I really didn't mean it like I was mad," he said, even though he totally had been. "I'm just having a hard time understanding why you're…still here."

He looked away from her and down at the covers over top of him. He hadn't planned on being that candid with her, but he'd said them, and he couldn't take them back. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he'd really understood the sentiment himself until he'd just spilled it out there for Natasha to tear apart.

The thought made him bite the inside of his cheek. He hadn't thought about her like that since the first few months she'd started speaking to him back when he'd brought her in to SHIELD. He remembered thinking of her as, well, a spider. The Black Widow. She was lethal and deadly and a bomb waiting to explode, and he'd thought for a long time that he couldn't tell her anything about himself or his past because she'd A) Use it to her advantage and rip him into tiny little pieces, B) See him as the fucked up person he was, and C) She'd judge him for his man pain when hers had been so much more traumatic on some level.

God, he hadn't thought of her as the kind of person to rip apart what he was thinking or feeling in seven years. Guiltily, he dragged his hand down the side of his face and looked back up at her as he waited for her to reply. She was staring at him with those expressive eyes of hers, giving him that look she saved just for him whenever it was the two of them and no one else around.

"We're partners," she said out loud, her voice quiet and soothing. "I'd never—I _couldn't _not still be here."

It was the closest thing she'd ever gotten to saying that she would never leave him. They'd never said the words to each other before because they'd never had to; they'd just always known. But now for the first time ever, Clint actually felt afraid that she would. He met her eyes and shifted his jaw from side to side as he processed what she'd just said.

"What did Loki do to you?" he asked, repeating the same question he'd asked her before. "What did he talk to you about?"

Natasha gave him another unreadable expression. "Only things that you know. You and no one else."

She wanted to wipe the look of pain and guilt off his face as he tightly nodded to show that he understood. He looked at her the way she imagined she must look at him whenever he got injured on a mission. "I'm so sorry, Nat."

"It wasn't you." She shook her head just once, but Clint shook his harder, physically cutting her off.

"Nat, it _was_ me," he insisted. "That's why all of this…it's just…"

"Clint, that was _not _you," Natasha finished. She stopped clutching the blankets as tightly to her chest as she scooted a little closer to him, her green eyes fierce and blazing with the need for him to understand her. "That was what Loki did to your mind. Wasn't you."

Clint lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, again taking his gaze away from her. Natasha waited for him to speak, to move, to do anything other than sit here in silence. In that moment, she thought how funny it was that she'd once told him she didn't do the whole talking thing. To some degree, that was still true. She didn't like to do awkward talking or the kind of talking that went in circles over and over and over. But this? She could do this. Kind of.

She leaned forward just enough to rest her temple on his shoulder, and she closed her eyes. She knew his body so well that she didn't need eyes to identify him. She could have identified even just from resting her head on him like this. With her eyes closed, she stayed perfectly still, as if one small movement would rip apart everything she'd worked towards to have in this moment.

And then her stomach growled.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and looked at him with a regretful expression. "If I go turn the oven back on and get the pizza going, will you go get it when it's done?"

To her surprise, he gave her a half-smile and then a nod. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Ok." She started to move the blankets away from her when she paused. "And you can't wear clothes while you go get the pizza."

She got the right reaction she'd been aiming for because she turned back to look at Clint and found him grinning like an idiot. "Yep. I can definitely do that."

And because he looked so much like the Clint she'd said goodbye to four months ago, she just smiled. "Good."

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><p>After that, things were different over the next 24 hours before the mission. Natasha couldn't pinpoint what was different or how, but they were. The way they acted around each other, talked, moved, and even breathed felt different, and it was all due to the fact that they'd had sex. In a way, it was like having to deal with the next day repercussions of a one night stand except this <em>wasn't <em>a one night stand. This was Clint, and he was her best friend and so much more. They weren't supposed to act like that.

And yet, there was an extra sense of comfortable trust that had come from it, too. In the day before they were supposed to ship out with Palmer to Venice, Italy, Clint was the most relaxed he'd been with her since the Battle of New York. He did little things like touch her shoulder as he passed by her in the living room, or he'd place his hand on the small of her back when he came to stand next to her in the bathroom while she finished brushing her teeth.

Natasha had never experienced anything like it, and it went without saying that they were both going to have to figure out how to act around each other in Venice since they were posing as a married couple. Clint seemed to be completely unconcerned about the whole thing, so Natasha took her cue from him, and she played her nonchalance well.

She always did.

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><p>"It's way too fucking early." Palmer looked like he was ready to drop dead asleep in the very seat he was leaning into as he and STRIKE Team: Delta waited for the jet to get clearance for take off.<p>

"Dude, just go to sleep," Clint retorted. Palmer yawned and shrugged noncommittally.

"Yeah, I could," he agreed. "I just feel like as soon as I go to sleep, we're going to be there."

"It's a long flight," Natasha answered with lifted eyebrows. "You'll get plenty of sleep."

"Excuse me, Romanoff, but we're not all used to being up this early the way you are," Palmer said, smirking. He pulled his Styrofoam cup of coffee in closer to him and wrapped his hands around it. "God, how do you even do it?"

"Lots of practice," Natasha replied.

"She's been doing it for years," Clint added without batting an eyelash. "Since we first picked her up."

"Years," Natasha confirmed. Palmer yawned again but managed to cover his mouth this time.

"I don't think I can do it," he said. "I'm going to pass out."

"Go ahead, man," Clint encouraged with a nod towards the bunks. "They're all yours."

"I was trying to stay awake so that I could at least let Kathleen know when the plane took off," Palmer murmured as he pulled his phone out. "Eh, it's not that big of a deal. I can let her know now and then crash the rest of the way."

"Have you seen Hill?" Natasha asked suddenly, frowning. "She's handling us now."

"Is she?" Palmer asked mildly. He lifted his eyebrows slightly and looked over at Clint to see if Clint would confirm or deny. Clint nodded. "I feel like I should already know that."

"Do you even look over the files you get?" Clint asked.

"Yeah, man," Palmer replied, looking slightly offended. "I do. I just forget about them afterwards. Besides, she's not exactly _my _handler. I kind of handle myself. It's _you two _who need the handling."

"Ha ha, fuck you, Palmer," Clint snorted with a good-natured eye-roll. "Go the fuck to sleep."

"That's probably the smartest suggestion you've had since I met you, Barton," Palmer said as he rose up from his seat, coffee still in hand. He lifted his hand up in a mock salute. "I'll see you in Venice."

"See you in Venice," Natasha returned, watching him walk away. Unable to help herself, she smiled. "It's nice having him back. Like the good ol' days, huh?"

"Did we ever have good ol' days?" Clint smartly quipped. Natasha quirked an eyebrow and gave a half-nod.

"Ok, true," she agreed. "But you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," Clint replied. He leaned his head back against the headrest. "I might actually go try to sleep, too."

Natasha gave him a knowing look that he purposefully ignored. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He pushed his seat back and began to stand. "Care to join me?"

"Maybe in a little bit," Natasha said, her eyes following him as he moved past her. "I'd like to talk to Maria. Get a bit of a head start on the mission."

"Ok," Clint said. "Well…you know where to find me."

"I do," Natasha said with a smile. She watched him walk down the hall and towards the bunks before she fully relaxed in her chair. The only people who knew about her real place on this mission were Nick Fury, who had given her the orders in the first place, and Maria. The next time she saw Maria, she was supposed to get more detailed specifics on what exactly she was supposed to be watching Clint for.

Fury had assured her that she wouldn't be spying on Clint, but as she waited for Maria to appear instead of going with Clint to a bunk to pretend to fall asleep beside each other, she couldn't shake the feeling that spying was precisely what she was doing.


	7. Sleep

**Shoutouts to Nikki, yornma, EpicPackage, Jo, Guest, sailorraven34, AmeliaSkellig, beverlie4055, xSuperNovax, CreativeDreamer98, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing! (I know I have some PMs to answer, and I promise I'm going to get to them! I'm just falling really behind!)**

**Oh, man, some of the comments I got about the sex scene were hilarious. Yes, it was supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable on purpose, so if you felt awkward and uncomfortable while reading it, I did my job pretty ok! =)**

**This chapter has some good and bad in it, and we get to see what exactly Clint remembers in his dreams, so hopefully you guys like that little additional scene. I promise next chapter will be getting more into the mission!**

**Just as a heads up, I published a oneshot on my AO3 account about Kate Bishop telling Clint that she was sexually assaulted. If you're interested in reading it, my username is ThoughtfulConstellations, and the story's called _(Not) A Victim (Ever)_.**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Give Me Love" - Ed Sheeran =)**

**As always, keep reviewing. Your feedback is awesome and still continues to be important and fabulous.**

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><p>Chapter 7<p>

Maria Hill slid into the seat across from Natasha and set an apple down in front of the redheaded Russian. Natasha took one look at it, and she knew that she wasn't going to like what Maria had to say—it had kind of become their thing that whenever there was bad news, Maria brought Natasha an apple, her favorite fruit. The tradition had started four years ago when Maria had come to tell her that it would be another two months before Natasha could go up another clearance level, and she'd brought an apple with her to make up for the bitter news. Ever since then, whenever Maria had something to say that had the potential to upset Natasha, she brought the assassin an apple.

"No," Natasha said flatly before the dark-haired agent even said anything.

"It was Fury's idea. Not mine," Maria replied. "He knows you're still pretty opposed to your sub-mission."

"Sub-mission?" Natasha mused. "Is that what he's calling it now?"

"He knows you're not happy about watching Barton without Barton being aware of it." Maria had the good conscience to look guilty, Natasha thought to herself. Sighing, she reached out and took the apple. It was a gala apple, her very favorite. She moved her green eyes back to Maria.

"Well, he's right. I'm not happy at all," she said. "The only reason I agreed to it is because I know Clint would jump on the opportunity to go on a mission, and I wouldn't let him go without me. I'm not exactly willing in this whole fucked up arrangement he's got going on."

"Trust me, I'm not a fan of it, either," Maria reassured. "I think it's good that he brought Palmer back into the field, though."

"Yeah," Natasha reluctantly agreed. "It's just all shitty, though. Have you even had any time off since New York?"

"Not as much as I'd like." Maria gave a half-smile. "Anyway. Every two days, I need a report on how Barton's doing emotionally, mentally, and physically. Nothing in writing. Use an encrypted phone line."

"What if I can't ever find myself alone?" Natasha asked innocently.

Maria, however, was undeterred by Natasha's feigned innocence. "You'll have plenty of time. Clint will be at work establishing his cover and doing all of that boring business shit, and you'll be his stay-at-home wife when you're not schmoozing with his co-worker's wives."

"God, I hate doing that," Natasha groaned. She gazed ruefully at the apple in her hand, hating what it stood for, but she gave in and finally took a bite of it. "It's absolutely miserable. Trying to act like I give a shit about who's wearing what and why. I mean, don't get me wrong—I like looking my best and being stylish, but I just don't understand that lifestyle of not caring about anything else. It's exhausting, Maria."

"Oh, I know." Maria smirked at her. "I've done my fair share of those missions, and trust me when I say that I don't envy you."

"You realize that this means I won't be able to wear sweatpants or leggings for all three months we're there, right?" Natasha lifted her eyebrows as she took another bite of the apple. _Damn_ was it good, but she would never admit that to Maria.

"You'll live," Maria said, full out grinning now. "And you think I don't know that you're trying to get me off topic, but I know that's exactly what you're doing. Your eyes need to be on Barton at all times. Even when you think you're back at the apartment, and it's just the two of you, and you're not working anymore? You're still working. You're on the clock 24/7 here, Natasha."

"I know. I know." Natasha gazed out the window of the airplane and watched the clouds roll by. "It just feels shitty."

"I know it does. But you know that this is what's best for him," Maria said gently. Natasha looked back at the woman and saw that Agent Maria Hill, her handler was gone and in her place was Maria Hill, her friend. Reluctantly, she nodded and looked down at the table top in front of her.

"I know. Doesn't make it feel any less shitty, though," she said. "What if Clint finds out? How the hell am I supposed to cover myself then? He's going to flip, even if I tell him it's for his own good."

"Then don't let him find out," Maria said. Natasha's eyes shot back up, and she saw the half-guilty expression on Maria's face. "I know that seems hard to do, but when you need to keep a secret, you'll do it. I don't have to give you that lecture—hell, you could probably even give _me _the lecture better than I could give it to you."

"I hate this," Natasha murmured under her breath. "I really fucking hate this."

"He'll be ok, Natasha," Maria said reassuringly. And Natasha stared at her apple, at her peace offering, and she wondered how much she really believed Maria's statement.

* * *

><p>Natasha let out a quiet breath as she looked around the enormous apartment SHIELD had obtained for Jason and Faith Dantoni. Well, SHIELD definitely thought that Jason and Faith Dantoni deserved a luxurious apartment, and that was exactly what she and Clint—and Palmer—had gotten.<p>

"No fucking way," Palmer breathed, looking around the large room. "Ok. So maybe I should get back into field work more if this is the kind of place I get."

"They only do this for long term and if it fits your cover," Clint replied. Even he had a grin on his face. He'd stayed in plenty of nice places before to help keep his cover, but he certainly never got tired of it. SHIELD pay wasn't bad at all to say the least, but he and Natasha chose to keep their money saved away instead of spending it.

"Well, this is a lifestyle I can get used to," Palmer said. "I'm off to explore this place, and when I'm done, I'm picking a room and crashing."

"Don't take the master," Natasha reminded.

"I'm so impressed with this place that I can't even feel annoyed over the fact that I'm having a normal bedroom," Palmer answered, and he shook his head as he started walking around. Natasha glanced over at Clint, and they exchanged a silent conversation on how trying to take a nap probably wasn't such a bad idea. She could put together the fact that Clint hadn't slept much more on the plane than he had been at home in his bed, even if he hadn't volunteered the information.

She wandered around the apartment seeing where everything was, sometimes separating from Clint and sometimes exploring with him. In the back of her mind, she wondered how much SHIELD was paying for this apartment and how many false trails they'd had to leave behind to make it look real that the Dantonis had bought the apartment. Actually, she realized, it wouldn't surprise her if they'd gotten Palmer to take care of all that for them.

Finally, she stumbled across the master bedroom, and she didn't hesitate in her eagerness to get in the bed. Dropping her travel duffel on the ground just on the inside of the door frame, she crossed towards the bed and let all of the energy drain out of her bed, allowing her to flop on top of the covers. Clint appeared around the corner and smiled at her. "Getting comfortable?"

"Yeah. Didn't realize how much I could use a nap until Palmer mentioned it." Natasha fought the urge to yawn, and she patted the spot of the bed next to her. "Come on. We could both use a nap."

"I slept on the plane," Clint protested, but it wasn't an _actual _protest. Natasha knew he was lying, but she didn't call him out on it. If Clint wanted to think that she was stupid, then ok. She wouldn't try to argue with him because she was pretty sure that deep down, Clint knew she was on to him. She patted the spot on the bed beside her again, and his resolve finally broke. He threw his duffel bag onto the ground very much like she had, and then he crawled onto the bed, sighing and coming to a stop once he was beside Natasha. "Shit, this is a comfortable bed."

"Right?" Natasha closed her eyes and breathed deeply. "Our last day of freedom before we start our assignment, and we're spending it sleeping."

Normally, Clint would have used that moment to suggest doing something else—sex, he always meant sex—but this time he didn't. They hadn't had sex since that awkward thing had happened with them two nights ago, and honestly, both of them were kind of nervous that they'd lost their groove with each other. The thing was, Clint was fantastic at sex. He knew when to be gentle, when to be rough, and when to be both—he could make her fall apart 30 different ways, and that was just with his fingers.

Sex with Clint was never something that Natasha dreaded or felt wary about, but now she did. She couldn't help wondering if she'd done something to possibly push him when he wasn't ready, or if she'd completely misread his signals. She was ready to take the blame for what had happened—Clint hadn't been ready, and she was pretty sure that she'd pushed it onto him, and she wanted to die because of it.

"Nat?" Clint's voice was a whisper by her ear. She opened her eyes and looked over at him.

"Yeah?"

"You look upset," he said. Leave it to him to notice it and call her out on it.

"I was just thinking is all," Natasha said with a dismissive shake of her head. "The mission."

"You're worried about our assignment?" Clint couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. "Nat, we've killed thousands of missions like this before. We could do this in our sleep."

"Yeah. Three months is just a long time," she said, even though she'd been undercover on much harder assignments before. Clint rolled onto his side and looked at her with those piercing blue eyes of his, those eyes that had been able to see right through her the very first time she'd fallen into his line of sight.

"You've gone way longer than three months. What's wrong with this one?" he asked, his voice laced with so much concern that it broke Natasha's heart. He was so goddamn selfless—he was going through his own shit, but here he was putting his own problems off to the side so he could address hers. She hated him for it.

"Nothing," she said with a sigh.

"Something's worrying you. Come on," he coaxed. Natasha lifted a hand and ran it down the side of her face as she let out another side.

"You," she said. "_You _are worrying me." Clint was quiet. She didn't want to look at him, but she needed to see his reaction, so she tentatively turned her head to see him staring at her with an uncharacteristically expressionless face. "Clint…say something."

"I don't know what you want me to say. I'm fine. I keep telling you—"

"I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I don't want you to if you don't want to. But don't lie to me. I hate that." Her voice was quiet and level. Clint thought that that was probably worse than her breaking and yelling at him.

"I'm not lying—"

"I'm not an idiot, Clint." Now she just sounded tired. She kept her gaze on him, and he could see the way her eyes looked guarded. Natasha never looked at him like that. He watched her put up her walls, and he made the decision to knock them down just a little bit.

"Loki brought up my childhood memories. He used his scepter to—to access parts of my memory that I've tried to leave out. Memories of my father, my mother, my brother, Trick Shot breaking my hands…memories from my first month at SHIELD. He brought up every single one of those memories. My nightmares…they're about my memories. But brighter. More enhanced. Like Loki put them in HD so I remember everything in vivid detail." He was surprised by how painless it was to talk, how easy it was for the words to flow out from his mouth. He watched Natasha's face change as she processed the information, her eyes never leaving his face.

"So that's what he did to you," she said softly.

"I keep getting flashbacks…when I'm asleep." Clint watched Natasha shift her body so that she was lying on her side facing him. "That's why I haven't been sleeping very well."

He didn't tell her that his nightmares also included Loki implanting the image of what it would be like to kill Natasha in his head. He didn't know how he could possibly tell her and expect her to stick around, so he just didn't say anything about it.

"If we're going to nap, can I try something?" Natasha asked. Clint's face turned wary, but he nodded, his cheek sliding over the pillow. "Do you trust me?"

"Always," he murmured, as if the thought of not trusting her hadn't even crossed his mind. Natasha felt a pang of guilt at the faithful expression in his eyes. If he knew that she was supposed to report back to Maria in two days about his condition, would he still trust her? Would he be angry? She didn't want to find out. Forcing herself to turn away from him, she rummaged around in her duffel bag until she found what she was looking for. With quick, efficient movements, she had the iHome up and running and her playlist of rain sounds filling the room. She turned back to face Clint, checking his face to see his reaction, and she was instantly rewarded by the look of calm on his face.

"You have a rain playlist," he said as she slid back into the bed. He followed her lead and tucked himself under the covers.

"I do," she confirmed. "Sometimes it helps me sleep whenever I'm stressed."

"It's been a long time since I've fallen asleep to running water," Clint said, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

"Me too." Natasha lay on her side and looked directly in front of her, taking in Clint's face. God, he was home. He was so much her home that she could barely stand it. Suddenly, it didn't matter to her whether they were in Italy or Texas—she just needed to be with him right then. Whenever she came back from a mission, she never particularly took the time to think about the places in her physical area that she'd missed; she rarely thought about the restaurants or the parks or the cafes nearby. When she thought about going home, she thought about Clint. She thought about this face in front of her. "Thank you for telling me the things you did."

Clint moved his jaw like he was going to speak, but he just stayed quiet and nodded. Carefully, he scooted a little closer to her, just close enough to drape his arm around her waist and draw her in to him. Natasha let him bring her close, and she mirrored his action by draping her arm around his ribcage. Just like that, they were so close their foreheads were touching.

_I want to be better for you_, Clint thought.

_I want to be ok for you_, he wanted to say.

_I want you_, his mind sighed.

Natasha felt his blue eyes on her face, and she couldn't look away. Not when he was being so close and open with her. She just stayed still underneath his arm and looked at him, thinking about how she would never get tired of looking at him. She knew every kind of facial expression in the world that he wore. She knew how he looked when he was trying not to be angry, how he looked when he was proud of something and wanted her to be proud of him, too, how he looked when he told a joke that he thought was hilarious. And she also knew how his face tensed and blossomed when he came, how he held his eyebrows tight together as if he were in pain but his jaw open in pleasure.

But right now, he looked a mixture of wary and relaxed. Tilting her head in, she kissed him gently on the mouth. At first, he was still, unmoving beneath her elbow, but then he started kissing her back. He kissed her with a soft, tender mouth, his lips relaxed and just slightly damp. With each kiss, Natasha found herself simply enjoying the act of kissing. It had been a long ass time since she and Clint had made out like a couple of hormone-crazed teenagers, but she really reveled in it as Clint did nothing more than hold her and kiss her.

She didn't know how much time passed, but before long, she was wrapped up in Clint's arms with her nose pressed to his chest, listening to the sound of Clint's slow steady breathing. To the sound of Clint sleeping.

* * *

><p>Everything was in HD. Clint knew he was dreaming, but he couldn't quite bring his awareness far up enough into his consciousness to wake himself up, but he definitely knew he was dreaming.<p>

He sat at a table in an empty room, his hands chained together and the cut above his eye still dripping blood. He didn't know where the fuck he was, and it was the century's largest understatement to say that he didn't want to fucking be there. As he turned his head around the room to figure out where he might be, a dull ringing in the back of his skull let him know that he'd most likely received a concussion from that one guy slamming his head against the concrete.

What was the last thing he remembered? He tried to think. He remembered Barney, and he remembered a man in a suit. Wincing at the effort it took to remember, Clint shut his eyes. "Fuck."

Without warning, the door flung open, and in walked the man in the suit from earlier. Clint felt his muscles tense up, and he glared furiously up at the man. "Where the fuck am I?"

"Mr. Barton, do you remember me?" the man asked. His voice was smooth and pleasant, completely undeterred by the fact that Clint was bleeding and pissed off.

"Where the _fuck _am I?" Clint snapped.

"I take it that you don't remember." The man in the suit sat down across from him and stared seriously at him. "That's ok. I accidentally hit you much harder than I'd intended to, and you have a concussion."

"WHERE AM I?" Clint shouted, feeling the wires begin to snap inside him. Panic started to rise up in his chest as he thought about Barney. Oh, God, where was Barney? What had they done to his brother? His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he wasn't sure if it were because of the panic or the concussion.

The man didn't even flinch at Clint's explosion. "You're at a SHIELD facility. You're with SHIELD."

"Fucking hell. Fucking hell." Clint tried to lift his hands but found them chained to the table. "What did you do to my brother?"

"Your brother is all right, Mr. Barton. He and your mentor got away," the man replied coolly.

"You leave them the fuck alone. Do you hear me? Don't touch them," Clint said. He meant it as a clear and obvious threat, but as the words came out of his throat, they just felt like cardboard—flimsy and replaceable.

"We don't have orders to go after them. It would have been nice to get them in our custody, but we were mainly focusing on you," the man said. He didn't seem bothered at all by anything, and Clint wanted to punch that smooth, easy look of his face. He grit his teeth in both pain and anger, fighting to get some kind of self-control.

"I don't believe you," he growled.

"You don't have to. Not right now. Mr. Barton, my name is Agent Phil Coulson, and I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, otherwise known as SHIELD. I'd like to make you a job offer," the man said. In the back of his mind, Clint could kind of remember the man introducing himself earlier before the fight had broken out, but he didn't linger much on the memory. There was no sense doing that when he could focus on the now.

"Fuck off," he spat.

"I don't think you understand your dilemma here, Mr. Barton," Agent Phil Coulson said, finally starting to look mildly annoyed. "You've broken a lot of rules, and you've made a lot of people unhappy. The director of SHIELD would love to have you thrown in prison for life, but I don't think you deserve that. I'm willing to give you a chance. I want to help you become an agent."

"Does it look like I want to be a fucking agent?" Clint demanded. He leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and he narrowed his eyes at the strange man in front of him. "I want. To go."

"It's either prison or training, Mr. Barton. I don't think it's that difficult of a choice. Not unless you make it difficult." Agent Phil Coulson stood up. "I'll let you think about it."

"Get me the fuck out of here!" Clint shouted. "Let me go!"

But his words fell on deaf ears. Agent Phil Coulson was gone, and he was alone in this empty room again.

* * *

><p>Something collided with the side of Clint's body, and he was awake in seconds. He jerked into consciousness and immediately moved into a defensive position until he realized that he was on the floor, and no one was attacking him. His breath came out in large, deep pants, and he felt sweat cooling uncomfortably fast against his burning skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha perched on the bed with a look of subdued panic and concern plastered onto her face.<p>

Looking up at her, he lifted a hand and signed, **Fine. I'm fine.**

**Clint…** Natasha fingerspelled his name, something she usually didn't do unless she wanted the practice. She normally just did the name sign for him, but he watched her fingers move at the speed of light to spell out his name.

**I'm fine**, he repeated. **Memories. Loki.**

**Water?** Natasha asked as she lifted her eyebrows to signify the question. Clint was about to say no—she could see it in the way his neck muscles tensed—but then he stared at her with watery blue eyes, and he nodded. With a quick nod to acknowledge his response, she got up and walked out of the room to go relocate the kitchen and get a glass of water for him.

She had noticed the strangled gasps from Clint's side of the bed right before he'd rolled off and over the side. He'd only rolled off the bed a few times in the seven years that she'd known him, but they'd always been because he'd fallen asleep too close to the edge of the bed and had misjudged where he was in his sleep. This time, he had been trying to escape something.

Quietly, Natasha pulled a glass out of the third cabinet she opened in search of cups, and she crossed to the sink to fill it with water. Judging by the silverware drawer sitting half-open and the rumpled dishtowel near the fridge, Palmer had already been through the kitchen for something earlier. She made sure to keep her movements extra quiet so as not to draw any attention out here. The last thing she needed was Palmer hearing her and coming out for a chat.

Just as quietly as she had before, she moved swiftly down the never-ending halls until she was back at the master bedroom. She crossed through the doorway and saw that Clint had pulled himself together enough to untangle himself from the blankets and reposition himself so that he was leaning back against the bed. He noticed her entrance, and he looked towards her.

She crossed towards him and knelt down, handing the glass to him and watching as he eagerly took it and began guzzling it. Swallow after swallow, gulp after gulp. Once he'd drained the glass, he set it right next to his hearing aids on the night stand by the bed.

**Thanks**, he signed.

**How do you feel? **she asked.

**Sweaty**, he answered. She couldn't tell if her were just fucking with her or not, but then he gave her the most miniature smile she'd ever seen, and she knew that he was still enough of himself to smile. But just as quickly as that smile had come, it was gone, and his face was dark again. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead into his hands. Natasha waited quietly for a few moments, just staying completely still in her spot while Clint composed himself. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. **I saw Coulson.**

She frowned. **What?**

**I saw him**, Clint repeated. **I had a flashback to the very first time I was in SHIELD custody, and he introduced himself. And he was alive.**

**Not a good flashback**, Natasha signed without even questioning it. She knew that Clint had had a rocky start with SHIELD—she knew that he'd been violent and difficult to be around because he'd been passionately opposed to anything to do with SHIELD. Clint kept his eyes on her, and he nodded in confirmation.

**Not good**, he signed. **I think…I think Loki brought those memories back for a reason. He didn't do it just to fuck with my head, Nat. He did it because he needed me to be in the right state of anger to kill—to carry out his orders without question.**

**He's not here anymore, ok? It's just you and me. Loki's in Asgard rotting in whatever fucking prison they put his sorry ass in. But here? Now? It's just us. Like always. **Her signs had the effect on him that she wanted, and she watched as his face became less stressed and pained and more hopeful. Hopeful wasn't even the right word for it, but she watched him let go of some of the pain he'd been clinging to for fear of falling completely.

He stared at her for a few seconds in total silence, and for a second, she thought he was going to release the tears that had started to well up in his eyes, but he blinked hard and held out a hand to her. She didn't need much more encouragement than that. She reached out and took his hand and let him pull her in close. As she ended up right beside him, her body turned in towards him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and just rested his head on her shoulder.

And so they sat like that, Clint's arms holding her close and Natasha's fingers running through his hair. As he held her, she cradled his head and turned her mouth down into his unruly tufts of dark blond hair. She knew he didn't have his hearing aids in, and because he couldn't hear her, she whispered to him.

"I love you," she soundlessly sighed. "I love you, I love you, I love you."


	8. Undercover

**Shoutouts to sailorraven34, yornma, Agent Keene, beverlie4055, pengineer, CreativeDreamer98, paranoid-mandroid, Jo, Rosay Chere Khann, EpicPackage, clintashainthetardis, MaddieFayeth96, Guest, and Steph for reviewing!**

**Just as a sidenote, Agent Keene's review made me laugh the hardest I've ever laughed at a review, so thank you for a much needed laugh!**

**I know I'm two days late on my upload, but I'm on October break from school, so I haven't had as much time to write. I probably won't update on Monday, but I should be able to update on either Tuesday or Wednesday, just as a heads up.**

**Thank you guys for being patient, and I hope you like the chapter! This chap introduces some really key characters to the mission Clint and Natasha are taking on, so make sure you pay attention to that. Also, there's a bit of Palmer and Natasha bonding (kind of) and a little bit of sexy time that also winds up being a little awkward. No sex but some sexy stuffs ;) (Not going to lie, I love writing body worship stuff, so expect more of that in the future heh heh)**

**Since this chapter wasn't too sad, no sad song for listening to today! But I do have a song, which I think is one of the ultimate Clintasha songs: "Budapest" - George Ezra =)**

**As always, keep leaving your thoughts and opinions on everything that's happening. **

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 8<p>

"Do I look professional?"

Clint held his arms out to the side and stood under Natasha's scrutinizing gaze as she glanced him up and down, her hands fumbling with the earrings she was currently fastening. Her green eyes trailed over him, and despite herself, she smiled. She'd seen Clint in a suit probably just as much as she'd seen him in his regular clothes, but she never got tired of the sight. He looked damn good and damn professional, all tied together and in one piece, she ironically noted to herself.

"You look like the dictionary definition of professional," she replied. "Your tie also looks good, too. How'd you manage that one?"

"Hey, I'm fantastic at ties," Clint retorted with a snort and an eye roll, meriting a smile from the redhead. He wasn't lying—he was really great at ties, what with his nimble archer fingers always knowing what to do and when.

"Yeah, you are," Natasha agreed. She put her hands on her hips and struck a pose. "So how do I look? Do I look the part of a CEO's wife? How is that I'm always the CEO's wife?"

"You look like you belong out on my yacht somewhere with a flute of champagne in your hand," Clint said with a small appreciative smile.

"Just what I like to hear." Natasha glanced down one last time at her outfit. In a slim-fitting floral pattern dress that she never would have been caught dead in during her off-time, she looked completely unlike herself and totally like the yacht-junkie wife she was supposed to be. Her nude heels were high enough to be interesting without looking suggestive and low enough to easily walk without looking embarrassing. When she glanced up, Clint's face was distant, his eyes unfocused and staring off to the side. "Nervous?"

"Hmm?" He brought his eyes back to her face and lifted his eyebrows.

"Nervous?" Natasha didn't let her worry cross her face. Usually, Clint wasn't so distracted and space-y, but today he didn't seem to be quite on his game, and that worried her to no end.

"No," he said. "Nothing we haven't done before, right?"

"Right," she replied. "There's nothing to worry about. Got your game face on, Hawkeye?"

"Always, Black Widow." Clint took one last look at the full-length mirror. "So Palmer's sitting this luncheon out, but if anyone asks, he's your brother here vacationing for a little while."

"I know the plan," Natasha said gently. He shot her a look and lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.

"Saying it out loud makes me feel better," he admitted. Natasha crossed towards him and stood next to him, the both of them facing the mirror. She looked at Clint's face in the smooth glass, and her eyes met the reflected version of his. Quietly, she offered him one of her half-smiles she only reserved for whenever she couldn't find the words to tell him how much she supported him. And like always, because he was Clint, he understood.

As Natasha looked at his reflection and watched him understand her wordless support, she felt her heart break just a little bit. He was so not ok, so different from the Clint Barton he had been the last time she'd seen him, and yet, he was so unchanged that she had to take a moment to remember that it was just _pieces _of him that were the same. The puzzle might make up a different picture, but it was some of the pieces that remained constant.

And in a way, even that was a sign of consistency. Between the two of them, Natasha was the one who molded and changed and adapted, and Clint was the one who was ever steady and constant. Maybe that was why she'd felt like the air had been punched out of her when Coulson had told her that Clint had been compromised—for the first time in a long time, Clint had been the one to change, and she was now being needed to stay the same for his sake. And even though she never liked to be too consistent, too predictable, she always would be for him.

Suddenly, it became important to her that she tell him she would be whatever he needed her to be. She wanted to tell him that if he needed her to be steady and unchanging the way he had always been for her, she would do it in a heartbeat; if he needed her to be as unpredictable as a fearful heartbeat, she would be that for him. She would be anything and everything if it meant that he would be ok, that he would come back to her. But she was bad with words, and they were running late, so she just placed her fingers on the inside of his wrist and lightly squeezed. It was their way of saying, "We've got this," and when Clint nodded, she knew he was thinking the same words, too.

* * *

><p>Natasha was in over her head.<p>

She looked around at all the wives who had chosen to accompany their husbands to today's meet-the-new-guy lunch, and she felt out of her element. The thing was, Natasha Romanoff rarely felt out of place. She didn't get thrown off by people the way her enemies expected her to, and that was one of the reasons she was such a powerful agent. She was sure of who she was—well, to some degree—and she was a sure agent in her skills.

But as she took in all the pretty faces of women who had spent years devoting themselves to yachts and champagne and vacations in France, she felt 100% out of her skin to the point where she held on to Clint's arm just a little tighter. If he noticed, however, he gave no indication. Instead, he extended his right hand out to Anthony Tribiani, his new business partner.

"Jason! We've been looking forward to having you here!" Anthony reached forward with his hand and firmly shook Clint's. "It's been quite the buzz around our company with your impending arrival. Your credentials are outstanding. As soon as your people contacted mine about a possible partnership, I knew I'd be an idiot to let that opportunity slip away."

"Please, the pleasure's all mine," Clint replied with an easy smile. "After I took over for my father, I wanted to continue the kind of high quality partnerships he was known to make. I'm just glad we could work something out."

"Of course. Anything for you." Anthony's eyes drifted to Natasha, and he held his hand out to her. "You must forgive me. Here I am being rude to your beautiful wife. I am Anthony Tribiani, your husband's new business partner." He took Natasha's hand and kissed the back of her knuckles. And even though Natasha was smiling, inside she was rolling her eyes.

"It's very nice to meet you. I know my husband has been incredibly excited to work with you," she said with a convincing, energetic tone to her voice.

"Yes, this is my wife, Faith," Clint said. He released her arm and put his hand on the small of her back. To anyone else, the gesture would look like it wasn't anything more than a loving, affectionate little touch, but for Natasha, it was more than that. It was his way of supporting her and letting her know that he was there for her, just as she had her little ways of touching his wrist when no one could see to tell him she was there for him, too.

"My wife Francesca is over at the table with the rest of our associates and their wives. They're all very excited to meet you, Mrs. Dantoni." Anthony smiled politely at Natasha in a way that she didn't think was creepy, but she still wasn't terribly fond of. She returned the smile and redirected her gaze to the women at the table in the distance; of course, Natasha had read their files. She knew who each and every single woman at that table was, who she was married to, how long they'd been married, and how many kids they had and wanted to have in the future.

"Francesca! Francesca, this is Faith Dantoni. Jason Dantoni's wife," Anthony said as she and Clint made their way over to the table. Natasha smiled largely at the dark-haired woman, flashing her bright white teeth for all they were worth. She could definitely play the part of over-enthusiastic rich wife. She'd done it before, and she could do it now, even if Clint wasn't exactly the epitome of over-enthusiastic rich CEO. He was playing smooth and cool, using his current personality weaknesses as strengths during this time when he wasn't quite able to figure out who he was after Loki had fucked with him.

"Faith Dantoni! Welcome to the Tribiani Developing family!" Francesca stood up and held her arms out towards Natasha in a light hug. "We hope you and Jason are enjoying your time here in Venice so far. Do you like?"

"Yes! We do. We just got in yesterday, so we're still feeling some effects of the time zone differences, but the city's just gorgeous," Natasha replied, her smile not fading the slightest bit.

"I am born and bred in Venice. My family has lived here for centuries, so I will be more than happy to show you around." Francesca tucked a long piece of dark hair back behind her ear and kept smiling at the redhead undercover assassin. "What are you doing tomorrow? The girls and I were planning on making a day of it, and we would love if you came with us."

"I—"

"She's not doing anything," Clint interjected. Natasha knew that this was Jason Dantoni speaking for Faith Dantoni instead of Clint Barton speaking for Natasha Romanoff, so instead of shooting him an annoyed look, she turned and smiled at him.

"Jason, we still have to finish unpacking," she said.

"We can come over and help," Francesca said. "I'll even bring some wine. No unpacking is complete without a bottle of wine. The best Italian wine."

"Oh, I can agree to that!" A blonde with a light Italian accent lifted her hand to agree. She hadn't introduced herself to Natasha yet, but Natasha knew that the speaker was Ariana Ercolano, wife of the vice-president of the company. When Natasha glanced back over her shoulder towards Clint, she saw him talking with Anthony and a few of the other men, losing himself in the role of Jason the CEO.

"I'm Sabrina DiAngelo. My husband is Tony. He's a partner with Anthony and now your husband Jason," another brunette woman said. "The men do their own thing, and we do ours. It's nice to have another woman on board with us."

"I'm Ariana Ercolano, and my husband is Sebastian," the blonde from earlier added. "How long have you and Jason been married?"

"A little over five years," Natasha replied. Her mouth was already starting to hurt form all the smiling, but she didn't allow herself to falter. Any sense of not being a genuine wife the way these women were, and they'd immediately turn against her, and she'd lose any opportunity to find out what she could about the company through them. That being said, they could still turn against her at any moment, and she'd be on the outside, so Natasha felt the pressure. "We met at a fundraiser."

"A fundraiser? That's unusual," Sabrina said with a light laugh. Natasha tried not to read too much into it. _These women don't know you_, she told herself silently. _They don't know you, and any of their bullshit judgments they're passing off on you aren't really on you—they're on Faith Dantoni_.

"I like to think we're not the typical couple." Natasha couldn't help the genuine smile that slid over her face at the double meaning. She took a quick peek at Clint out of the corner of her eye, passing it off as the role of the in love wife when really, it was Natasha Romanoff thinking about the man she'd fallen in love with.

Clint was deep in conversation with the other men—she could see him talking, hear some words every now and then from his statements he was making about their businesses. He was so much Jason Dantoni that Natasha wondered how long it'd take him to realize he wasn't once they were back in their large apartment. Sometimes he got so into being undercover that it took him a few minutes to drop it; usually a cup of coffee and a change of clothes later, and he was back to being Clint Barton, but it did take him a few extra minutes to remember who he was.

Natasha was the espionage expert; she was the one who could slip into a new skin and shed it quicker than she could blink. She did it beautifully and effortlessly because it was part of her survival instinct and her training. The Red Room had taught her how to be as duplicitous as possible, while Trick Shot and the Swordsman had taught Clint how to be a living weapon.

How beautiful it was to her that they had ended up doing whatever it was they were doing now. It was odd and interesting and unlikely that they had ended up as partners on the field and in their personal lives, and yet, it was strangely fitting. She took a second to look at him and think about how he would be later that evening when he came back from his first official meeting with Tribiani Developing, and she tried to guess how he would be. If it usually took him about two minutes to go back to being Clint on a normal mission, that meant he could take anywhere from two minutes to an hour.

As Natasha looked away from him and back towards the bunch of women who were now trying to figure out if she were a friend or a threat, she hoped that Fury knew what he was doing by assigning Clint to this mission. Because of Clint cracked, and he was the one to blow their cover, he would never forgive himself. She knew him enough to know that. Without a doubt.

* * *

><p>By the time lunch was over, Natasha felt that she'd passed the initial test to be welcomed into their official "family," that they called themselves. However, just because she'd passed the initial round didn't mean that she was anywhere close to being trusted by these women, and she knew it'd be a long way to go.<p>

By the time Natasha got back to the apartment sans Clint, she was exhausted from all the social interaction, and she was ready to take a few moments by herself to breathe before brushing up on the more in depth details about the mission.

By the time she'd sat down on the couch and made herself a cup of tea, Palmer was walking into the large living room. She glanced up at him and noticed that he looked more put together than she'd seen him look outside of a SHIELD uniform in years, and she allowed a half-smile in his direction. "What've you been up to today?"

"Nothing," Palmer begrudgingly admitted. "This assignment's going to be a bitch. I can already tell."

"I can tell you now that there won't be much for you to hack. At least not yet," Natasha replied as she scanned over the documents in front of her. "I feel bad that Fury pulled you out of the office for something as dumb as this."

"It's not dumb," Palmer answered in a flippant tone. "It could be worse. I could be literally confined here in a prison, but hey, I can come and go as much as I please so long as I don't attract attention."

"And after today, Clint will start needing to be fitted with recording devices," Natasha pointed out. "So it's not so bad."

"Hey, Natasha…" Palmer said. The tech genius rarely used Natasha's name, usually preferring to call her Romanoff or Black Widow instead, so his use of her first name made the redhead stop what she was doing and look up at him.

"Yeah?" she asked, careful to keep her face from giving away concern or annoyance or anything that might make Palmer feel as though he shouldn't go forward with what he wanted to talk to her about. He studied her through his glasses with a small frown, and he took a breath.

"Why'd Fury give Barton this case?" he asked seriously. "Don't get me wrong—I think Barton's more capable than the next guy but so soon after New York? It was, what, a week? SHIELD gives a week off after a simple mission. Not something like New York. That was…that was more than simple. And after what happened to Barton? There's something fucked up about this, Natasha."

"Believe me, I've been trying to figure it out, too," Natasha answered with a frown. "It's not adding up in my head, either. Clint should be in therapy right now talking out his issues with a SHIELD psychiatrist. He should be focusing on getting better."

"Because he'd actually do that, anyway," Palmer remarked, meriting another small grin from Natasha.

"True," she said. "But it's the principal of the thing, Palmer. He shouldn't be out in the field."

"So that we can agree on." Palmer eyed her carefully, as if he weren't sure whether or not she was on his side. With a quick, easy nod, Natasha flicked a piece of red hair out of her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "As for why they have Clint out here working a three month long mission—I have no idea. Have any theories?"

Palmer snorted. "Hell no. I'm not the theory guy. I just do the computers. You're the one who's supposed to read everyone's minds and figure out their motives."

"Yeah, well…I'm a bit behind on that one," Natasha replied. She sighed and shut the file. "It's just a matter of time before something happens."

"Something?" Palmer repeated, confused. "What do you mean something? Good something or bad something?"

"Bad something," Natasha said, speaking honestly for the first time since Palmer had sat down with her. "It's only a matter of time before Clint snaps. You know how he is."

"Yeah, I do," Palmer agreed with a worried frown. "You really think he'll…snap or whatever?"

"Palmer, he's Clint. He'll do that thing where he keeps everything to himself because he's trying not to bleed on the people around him, but it'll backfire on him. It always does," she said. "Remember the Omega mission? The last one? How Clint kept his vision a secret from everyone? It'll be like that all over again."

"That was more to protect his pride than anything," Palmer said. Natasha lifted her eyebrows at him.

"And this isn't?" she countered. "It's the same thing. Clint doesn't want to admit that that fucking asshole got to him."

"And he still hasn't told you what happened?" Palmer asked, his worried look coming back. Natasha held her face as steady and as unconcerned as she could.

"No," she said evenly. "He hasn't. I don't know anything."

"Shit." Palmer lifted a hand and ran it down his face, all the while making Natasha silently feel guilty for keeping what she knew from him. As much as she wanted to tell him that Fury had asked Natasha to keep an eye on Clint, she couldn't. She couldn't tell him that without fear of him accidentally revealing it to Clint, just like she couldn't tell Palmer what she knew about Clint's time with Loki. That story just wasn't hers to tell.

"How've you been doing since this whole shit show?" Natasha asked, switching the gears on Palmer. He lowered his hand from his face and shrugged.

"Fine, I guess. Hearing Coulson had been killed was hard. Wish I'd been able to go to the funeral," he said. "You and Barton went?"

"We did," Natasha said with a quick nod of her head. "It was nice. Very respectful. Maria and Fury both spoke, and there were a lot of people."

"He touched a lot of people's lives," Palmer remarked. Natasha felt her throat grow tight, and she blinked hard to keep a hold over her emotions as she looked away from Palmer and down to the top of the file in her lap. Needing something to do, she reached out to the coffee table and grabbed her cup of tea.

"He did," she agreed. "It's been hard. Realizing that he's not our handler anymore. I keep expecting him to call me and tell me he knows about me messing around with his artifacts in his office when he wasn't there."

"That was you?" Palmer lifted his eyebrows in surprise and grinned. "He was always bitching about that."

"That was me." Natasha allowed her lips to curl up into another small, rare smile. "It drove him crazy, but it was always hilarious. And he knew it was me, too." Her smile melted away as she stared into the dark amber liquid of her hot mug. "If it weren't for him, I don't know where I'd be."

"Same with Barton, honestly," Palmer added. "Coulson was the guy who really got him to want to be better and join up with SHIELD."

"So I've heard." Natasha lifted her eyes and made contact with Palmer. "If it weren't for Coulson, he wouldn't have gotten through to Clint. And if it weren't for Clint, he wouldn't have gotten through to me. And I'd be…I don't know. Still in Russia? Dead, maybe? I have no idea."

"Being an Avenger comes with a high price," Palmer mused. Natasha paused as she ran his words through her brain, realizing how true they were. Back when Fury had come to her with the idea of the Avengers Initiative, she thought it'd been a good idea. She'd thought that having a team of people who could handle high threats would be good to have, and she'd immediately agreed to sign on board to help him assemble the team.

What she hadn't realized, however, was how much she and the rest of the team would have to give up. The risks were high and many, and she hadn't truly considered that until she'd heard over the comms that Coulson had gone down—hell, she hadn't even considered the risks in full until Palmer had just stated those eight simple words, and the first image that had come to her head had been Clint under Loki's spell or whatever the fuck it was that had made him nearly kill her.

In the back of her mind, she couldn't believe that Clint had actually tried to kill her. If she didn't think too hard about it, she could almost write it off as being part of a really bad dream that she'd woken up from just in time before it'd gotten to be too gory and painful. But when she allowed herself to think about it, she knew that that wasn't the truth. Clint trying to kill her hadn't been a nightmare—it had been the unfortunate reality, and there was no way for her to escape it.

Sometimes when she looked at him, she took an extra hard glance at his eyes to see how blue they were; if they were their normal light blue, that meant he was Clint. But if they were an unnatural, glowing blue, that meant he was Loki's, and she wasn't sure how she'd handle that if suddenly switched back into that mode. Was that even possible? The consideration crossed her mind, and she found herself suddenly uncomfortable underneath Palmer's steady gaze as she thought something so private that she wished she were in her room by herself to think it.

"He tried to kill me," she said out loud before she could think twice. Palmer blinked in silence for a few seconds, and then he let out a quiet sigh.

"Shit," he whispered, his voice low. "Shit."

"I figured I'd tell you before you hacked into SHIELD's database and saw the surveillance videos," Natasha said by way of covering up what she'd just revealed to him. Inside, she started beating herself up over it. She hadn't wanted to expose this vulnerable side of herself to Palmer—sure, they were friends, and she trusted him far more than she trusted a lot of people, but New York? That wasn't something she really wanted to share with anyone outside of it just yet—she wasn't sure she wanted to share it with anyone outside of Clint.

"Well…I've actually been thinking about doing that," Palmer admitted. "What—how—Natasha…"

"I know," she said before he could speak again. "He was under Loki's control at that point, and…I don't know what Loki said or did to him to make him want to kill me, but he definitely tried to."

"And why didn't he?" Palmer asked slowly, careful not to tread somewhere he shouldn't.

"I smashed his head against a rail and then punched him and knocked him out," Natasha deadpanned.

Palmer nodded and gave no reaction. "Naturally."

"So…yeah…" Natasha's voice trailed off, and she quickly grabbed her file and stood up. "I should…probably go look over the rest of this. I don't know when Clint's going to be back, and I need to brush up on it a little bit more."

"Ten bucks says you have that entire mission plan memorized and have probably edited all the spelling and grammatical errors out," Palmer replied, a knowing look on his face. And even though he was right, and even though Natasha smiled to let him know that he was right, she shrugged.

"I can never look over it enough," she said. "Some habits die hard, Palmer."

"I know all about that, Romanoff. I'll see you later. Hey, what are you and Barton doing for dinner?" he asked, standing up to head back to his section of the apartment. Natasha frowned and shrugged.

"Not sure. I don't know if he'll have anything business-related, but honestly, I would be perfectly happy with calling something in tonight. Or having one of us run out and grab something. Too much socializing earlier today, and it only continues tomorrow," Natasha replied. At the memory of agreeing to let the women of Tribiana Developing come over tomorrow to help her unpack, she widened her eyes and snapped her fingers. "Speaking of, you should probably find something to do tomorrow. I have friends coming over."

"Friends?" Palmer repeated, amused.

"Clint's business partners' wives are coming over to help me unpack, so I'll be entertaining them. Unless you want to have to explain what you're doing here, you should probably peace out for several hours until either Clint or I call you," she said. Palmer rolled his eyes but started towards his room.

"Ok. Just let me know what we're doing for dinner."

"Will do. See you, Palmer."

"See you, Romanoff."

Natasha turned and walked back to the bedroom, one hand gripping her mug of hot tea and the other gripping the file that she knew inside and out. Navigating the halls of the giant apartment, she slowly breathed in and then breathed out. It was going to be a long mission.

* * *

><p>Natasha was so busy making the closet she and Clint were going to share look like an unorganized mess that she nearly missed the sound of him approaching the doorway and then leaning against the doorframe, his precise eyes watching her. She felt his presence and turned over her shoulder, craning her neck to get a good look at him. "Oh, hey."<p>

"Honey, I'm home," he quipped, the three words a phrase that had long become one of their inside jokes after having spent years playing a married couple.

"I can see that. How was your first day of work as Jason Dantoni?" she asked. She stood up from her spot on the floor near a pile of shoes she'd been working on and calculated the best way to get to Clint. Everything looked like a completely disorganized nightmare, and she started to regret how well she'd been able to make it look messy.

"It was ok. Boring. Business stuff. I hate undercover as a CEO," Clint replied. Finally, Natasha decided just to climb over the piles of clothes and shoes, and she wound up nearly falling just once as she made her way over to him. She didn't have to be up close to see that he was still having trouble slipping back into being Clint, but once she was right next to him, she could see that he was having more trouble than normal.

"I understand that," she said. "I'm not enjoying being the giggly yacht wife any more than you do a CEO."

"At least you don't have to take classes on how to effectively convince people that you're a giggly yacht wife," Clint countered. Natasha paused as she considered this, and then she shrugged her shoulders in agreement.

"Ok, true," she said. Squinting her eyes, she studied him. "Want coffee?"

"Already made some before I came up here." Clint nodded towards a steaming mug on his nightstand. "One step ahead of you."

"I can see that," she murmured. She was so close to him she could smell the expensive cologne he'd put on to help sell the image of wealthy CEO, and she couldn't help wrinkling her nose. Clint noticed, and he stared back at her with curiosity.

"What's that face for?" he asked.

"You don't smell like you. You smell like expensive things," she replied.

"Well, you're not wrong," Clint answered. "I have to sell it, babe."

"That's Jason Dantoni talking," Natasha said, lifting her red eyebrows with slight warning. "Not Clint. Clint doesn't call me babe."

"Right." Clint pushed a smile onto his face, but it didn't look natural there. "God, I'll never forget the time I slipped up and accidentally called you that without thinking."

"Bad habit of the past," Natasha answered. She was about to add something else, but then she noticed that Clint had remembered it. He'd remembered something and accurately. Without wanting to give anything away, she decided not to draw attention to it. Instead, she would test it. "Where was that, again?"

"Hmm?" Clint walked away from her and started undoing his suit jacket.

"Where'd you slip up and call me babe for the first time?" she asked. He paused halfway through shrugging out of the jacket, and Natasha watched as that familiar tension entered the muscles of his back. "Amsterdam, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," Clint replied.

_Wrong_, Natasha thought. _It was Norway_.

"Ok," she replied as she tried to ignore the feeling of her throat tightening up.

"You good?" Clint turned to face her as he started undoing the buttons of his shirt. Now if there were a way to distract Clint off of the shake that had existed in her voice just a moment before while also getting him back into his head as Clint, it was through physical interaction. So without verbally answering, she just nodded, and she crossed towards him. Neither of them spoke when she took over unbuttoning the bottom half of his shirt, going all the way down to the bottom until every button was undone.

The white shirt hung open, and Natasha could see the well-defined ridges of his abs. Absentmindedly, she reached out and pushed part of his shirt to the side and laid her hand on his warm skin. Just as she would never get tired of looking at him or kissing him or hearing him tell her he loved her, she would never get tired of touching him. She waited for him to push her away or to tell her to stop, but he didn't. He just quietly watched her as she ran her fingers over the familiar map of his body.

And then he took her other hand and also placed it on him, just above his ribcage but below his chest. Natasha heard him sharply inhale, his breath catching in the back of his throat, and she leaned forward to press a kiss to the center of his chest. His skin smelled like him—his clothes might have smelled like Jason, but his skin smelled like Clint. He was _hers_.

She ran her hands down his ribcage and over his hips to run around the dimples at the base of his spine as her mouth continued peppering light, sensual kisses over his chest. She could practically hear his heart thudding inside his chest, could hear him becoming Clint again, and just as she was about to make some kind of joke, she heard a scrambling sound in the doorway.

"Oh, shit. Fuck—fuck—guys, I'm sorry. I just—God—ok."

"Palmer! For fuck's sake!" Clint shouted. Suddenly, Natasha moved away from Clint and hoped her cheeks weren't as red as her hair as Clint started awkwardly doing up the buttons of his shirt. "Haven't you heard of fucking knocking?"

"Dude, your door was fucking open. If you're going to fuck each other's brains out, at least close the door. Hey, look, I just wanted to know what we were doing for dinner, but if you're doing each other for dinner—"

"There's a place on the way here that looks good," Clint irritably interrupted, refusing to make eye contact with Palmer. "Oh, Jesus, this is awkward. Ok. Um. So—"

"I'll go get food. What do you guys—"

"Whatever they have," Natasha interrupted.

"Ok. Cool. Whatever they have. I'll be back. Sorry. Ok. I'll be back." And lightning quick, Palmer was gone. For a few seconds, Natasha stood there in silence as she looked at Clint. And then Clint looked at her, the glassy look in his beautiful blue eyes gone, and then he cracked a smile.

"Well," he said, biting back his laugh. "I guess we should shut the door next time."

It was fleeting, but just for a second, everything felt normal between them. The look on Clint's face and the way he stood with his hands on his hips and his shirt buttoned all wrong, it was kind of normal. So she tilted her head to the side, and she smiled softly.

"Yeah," she agreed as she took in the sight of the man she could kind of recognize but would always know in her soul. "I guess we should."


	9. Weapon

**Shoutouts to AmeliaSkellig, Guest, EpicPackage, Rosay Chere Khann, Agent Keene, Jo, lovelydove21, TheNaggingCube, MaddieFayeth96, and nikki for reviewing!**

**Looks like we're having a bit of a lull with reviews! Hopefully this chapter fixes that! Also, some of you have started referring to Clint as bae, and it just about kills me with laughter each time. =) Sorry for the off schedule updating, but I should be getting back into the swing of it this week.**

**As a heads up, probably 60% at least of this chapter is smut. Natasha and Clint need some good sexy time after their last awkward sex thing and then Palmer walking in on them. So we've got a lot of smut up ahead. We also have a memory flashback, a cameo from mini-Barney Barton, Natasha's first check in with Maria, and the three ladies coming over to help unpack. Hopefully y'all enjoy =)**

**Also, I published two oneshots on AO3. One is called _STRIKE Team: Barton Bros_, and that's a fluffy Clintasha piece where sick Natasha asks Clint to tell him about her brother. The other is _Signs of Trust_, and that's about Kate Bishop coming to Natasha and asking Natasha to teach her how to sign. So if you're interested in reading either of those, my username on AO3 is ThoughtfulConstellations, so feel free to check them out!**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Winter Song" - Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson because that's what I listened to all while writing the smut sequence heh heh ;)**

**As always, keep letting me know what you think! Reviews keep me motivated, and they keep me from having self-doubt crises!**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 9<p>

"No American Italian food could come _close _to that." Natasha threw herself on the bed in a rare moment of giddiness, letting out a groan as she realized how full she was. "I ate too much."

"So did I." Clint closed the door behind him and crossed to the bed, falling face first onto it. "Palmer's a fucking asshole."

"Hey, be nice. He went and got us food."

"Only because he felt awkward about walking in on us."

"At least he didn't see your dick." Natasha lifted her head to catch the smile on Clint's face as he rolled onto his back.

"Ok, true," he conceded. Breathing in deeply, he let out a sigh and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. "That was a really good dinner, though. I haven't had food like that since—oh, God. Before PEGASUS."

"Last time we were in Italy, we did not leave with good memories," Natasha remarked. She waited for Clint's reaction and saw by the way he wrinkled his nose that he at least remembered that.

"Yeah, you're right," he said. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and let his hands drop to the side, the edges of his white button down falling open with his hands. Natasha watched as he lifted his hands up and ran them through the short blond tufts of hair. Moving swiftly, she rolled herself over so that the top of her head could nestle in the spot between Clint's shoulder and his neck. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," she mumbled. She wanted to just tuck her head into him right there, but she wanted to do something else more. Lifting her hand, she pulled one open side of his shirt out even more, exposing more of his chest and his shoulder. She didn't need to look at him to know he was smiling gently as she lowered her mouth to his bare shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle, the way it was whenever he was sleepy and telling her he loved her.

"Picking up where we left off earlier," Natasha replied, her lips brushing against his warm skin. She paused and glanced over at him. "If that's ok with you."

"Hell yeah, it is." Clint started to move so that he could roll on top of Natasha, but she quickly evaded him and slid fluidly on top of him, her knees falling open on either side of his hips and the entire front of her torso pressed hard against his.

"Let me do this for you," she said quietly. A flicker of nervousness passed over Clint's face, and for a good few seconds there, Natasha honestly thought that he was going to turn her down, but then he nodded. She leaned down and kissed him slowly in order to relax him—Clint was fantastic at kissing, and if there was something that could get him out of his head, it was that.

She wanted to ask him what was going on in his mind, but she also didn't want to talk. And judging by the way Clint's eyes were growing glassier and darker, he didn't want to do much talking, either. At least not with his voice. So she kissed him hard and deep and slow, letting her tongue dip into his mouth and brush playfully against his before pulling back and skimming it across his bottom lip.

"Jesus," he mumbled against her lips, and she smiled.

"Shhh," she said. "Is this where you do that thing?"

"Thing?" Clint furrowed his brow and refused to take his eyes off the redhead straddling his lap as she continued to kiss him, though her mouth was leaving his lips and was making its way past the corner of his mouth and down to his jawline.

"You talk when you don't know what to do with your hands," Natasha pointed out. She briefly nuzzled against him in that soft, warm space underneath his ear, and then she kissed him there. Beneath her, he inhaled and then sighed, the muscles of his neck tightening and making it look like the skin there was twitching.

"Yeah but only because there are a thousand things I could do with my hands," Clint breathed. His voice was starting to turn into a gasp, and Natasha grinned, continuing her kisses down his neck and to his chest and shoulders. Her hands rubbed over his bare skin, and she stopped to flick her tongue out against the rise of his toned, muscular chest. God, she'd spent so many days and nights curled up against him with her head tucked into the center of his sternum. How many times had he held her when she'd been unable to fall back asleep because of a nightmare? How many times had she buried her face there because she hadn't wanted him to see the amount of how much she loved him painted all over her face like an offering? Too many times, she decided.

She dipped lower and lower over his abs and let her hands run over the low ridges and tight expanses of muscles. Clint was breathing from his diaphragm, meaning his abs expanded and contracted with each breath he took and released. Natasha made a low hum as she lightly sucked a hickey onto the hard curve that connected his abs to his hips. At the feeling of the vibrations from her lips, Clint jolted slightly, his muscles bunching beneath her lips. She could feel his tension and his breaths, and if she were still enough, she could feel his heartbeat.

Clint Barton was a map she could never read enough—he was a canvas of mountains and valleys and miles she would always want to chart. Every muscle was his core, and his skin was the Earth. As she ran a hand down his obliques and let it rest on the light trail of blond hair that dipped below his waistband, she thought about how he jokingly called himself a weapon. They'd always joked about how they were more lethal than they were helpful, but with her lips on his skin and his hands starting to move to her shoulders, she couldn't see him as a weapon. Well, he _was _a weapon, and she would never be able to fully separate Clint Barton from Hawkeye, but he was so sweet, so caring. How could a weapon be loving and caring? But if he were a weapon, she was the trigger, the bowstring, the pin.

Natasha's lips follow the path of hair down to his waistband, and she started to undo the button and the zipper when Clint started to sit up, hesitation on his face. "Nat, you don't have to—"

"Do you not want me to?" she interrupted, looking up from his zipper, his erection painfully obvious through his suit pants. "If you want me to stop, I'll stop."

Conflict passed over Clint's head, and he tilted it to the side to rest against his shoulder. "Well, I always want a blowjob, but I don't want you to feel like you have to."

"I don't do what I don't want to, Barton. You should know that by now." Without warning, Natasha moved her hand down the front of his pants and watched him close his eyes as she took his erection in her hand through his boxers. "I want to do this for you."

"Ok." Clint's voice was strangled and his eyes large and wary and hopeful all at once. "Alright."

Natasha's fingers drummed over his left hipbone, and he lifted his hips for her to push his pants and boxers down to the ground. As she slid down his body, she could feel Clint's overly precise stare on her, could feel his blue, blue eyes boring into the top of her skull. His body was tense beneath her, but it was her goal to relax him. So while she normally would have teased him with her tongue and a light wrapping of her lips around the tip of his length, today she didn't have the heart to tease him when he was so ramped up. Wrapping her hand around the base of his length, she took him in her mouth.

Right away, Clint sharply inhaled and threw his head back, pressing his skull into the mattress of the large bed he shared with Natasha. Slowly, Natasha licked him from base to tip and back down again, pausing over the soft underside and letting her tongue slide back and forth. She put his entire length in her mouth and lowered her head until she was close to her limit, and she pulled back, repeating the motion. Clint's hand found its way to her hair, but as always, he never guided her head—he just gently caressed her head appreciatively, short, staccato moans ripping out from his throat.

"Nat—Natasha, you got to stop. Fuck. Natasha, I'm going to come if you keep going," Clint gasped. Smoothly, Natasha lifted her head and looked up at Clint through her hair with an amused smile on her face—Clint looked like he'd just run a race. His face was tight and overly controlled while also looking like he was three inches away from falling over the edge.

She moved her way back up the length of his body, her hands sliding up and over his bare torso as she moved, until her face was directly in front of his. Clint blinked just once before his eyes flicked down to the movement happening in between their bodies. He'd just processed that she was taking her shirt off, and then it was off. Just like that. Like magic. Like Natasha. She sat above him with a quiet, serious smile on his face, her breasts perfect in her bra, and Clint felt his mouth go dry.

"What the hell did I do to deserve you," he murmured, more to himself than Natasha. Her smile widened, and she reached behind herself, flicking her bra open with one hand before tossing it off to the side. Clint groaned at the sight of her and then again at the feel of her as she lay back down on top of him so that her body was stretched out over his. "Fuck's sake, Natasha…what are—why are you doing this?"

Natasha stilled, but she didn't look at him. With her head down beside his so he couldn't see her face, she just carefully leaned her cheekbone against his and closed her eyes. "You're so good. You're so, so good, Clint."

"Oh, don't—don't say that, Natasha—please don't—"

"Stop, please. Clint, don't…Clint…" She finally pulled back and looked him hard in the eye. "Clint…"

He kissed her as if he hadn't drunk water in nine years, and she was the first oasis he'd stumbled across. He kissed her as if she could heal his mind and his soul just with a press of her lips—he kissed her to share his pain. And when she leaned back onto his length and took him inside her, she sighed out his full name. "Clinton."

And for the first time since New York, Clint didn't let Loki in. As he pushed inside Natasha, he pushed Loki out. He closed his eyes and tried to raise his hips in an attempt to thrust up into her, but she placed her hands on his face, shaking her head when he opened his eyes. Slowly, she began to move. Her body rubbed against Clint's, and he could feel every inch of her skin on the outside and the inside.

"You feel so good," he groaned. He knew he wouldn't last long, and his hypothesis was only confirmed when Natasha sat up straight on his lap and began circling her hips in a slow, sinful grind. Everything was slow and almost too much for Clint to process, but he forced himself to stay in the moment, to keep himself there with her instead of checking out into some other part of his brain. Natasha started rocking her hips a little harder, and she pressed her hands against Clint's chest as she moved.

He was thick and solid between her legs, reliable. Every part of him was reliable, she thought to herself, she could always depend on him, and that was one of the reasons why he was so unbearably good. She continued to lift herself off of him and lower back down, and she leaned on her hands, pressing into his chest. However, he didn't seem to be bothered by it at all—in fact, he took his hands away from her hips and gently wrapped them around her wrists as if to secure them there. Here she was supposed to be doing this for him, and he was still taking care of her.

Natasha let her head fall back as she ground her hips back and forth over his. The angle was perfect, and she felt her face crumple just the slightest bit with each time he hit that spot inside her. Increasing her pace, she rocked over him until she felt white-hot pleasure spread out in rough, ragged tingles, going from between her legs down to her toes and up to the top of her skull. Overwhelmed, she leaned forward so that she was lying on top of Clint again. She needed to be close to him and feel him against her, and when she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him deep, slow, and filthy, he came beneath her with a short, strangled gasp that didn't quite sound like him and yet was.

She stayed still, feeling thick, hot wetness spread between her legs, and then she dropped her head down to his shoulder. Her arms stayed wrapped up near his head, allowing her even closer access to him. As they pulled themselves back together, neither made any effort to move. Natasha knew she needed to get up and clean herself off so that she could enjoy the rest of her evening wrapped up in Clint's arms before they both fell asleep, but she just couldn't make herself get up just yet.

Lazily, Clint traced little circles on her bare back, something he did out of habit, though he usually did it whenever he knew she was stressed or upset because she liked the way it felt. Even though she wanted to stay there forever with him, she knew she had to get up. Reluctantly, she peeled herself off of him and stumbled towards the bathroom, her legs not quite working.

By the time she'd cleaned herself up and come back to bed, Clint had slipped on a new pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he was lying under the covers with a half-asleep expression on his face. It took every ounce of willpower in Natasha's body not to go racing forward and leaping towards him—instead, she just crossed to the bed and slid underneath the covers with him. She'd barely been there for three seconds when Clint put an arm over her and pulled her against him.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I love you, too," she answered, letting him hold her. This was a step, she thought with a glance at Clint's sleepy face. This was a good step in the right direction compared to how he'd been a week ago, afraid to touch her, extra-jumpy, and out of sync with both himself and her. That being said, he wasn't anywhere close to being the Clint she knew. Closing her eyes, she tucked her face into his shoulder and inhaled deeply. Now he smelled like Clint, not Jason Dantoni.

"Thanks." Clint pressed a kiss into her hair, and she drew back to give him a confused look.

"For what?" she asked. An answer skittered across Clint's face, but he didn't say it. He gazed softly at her and then shook his head, his original answer swallowed back down.

"For you," he said. "Just being you."

"I really love you," Natasha said suddenly. Clint paused, his eyes scanning her face as he sensed the uncharacteristic desperation lying deep in her tone.

"Good." He rested his head against the pillow. "Because the feeling's mutual."

"Hearing aids, Clint," Natasha whispered. She wondered how the hell he forgot to take them out when he'd been wearing them for seven years, but she never gave him shit about it. She just quietly reminded him when he did forget. Reluctantly, Clint pulled back from her to remove his aids when he paused and looked at her straight on.

"That was…was that good for you?" he asked, sounding just a fraction nervous.

Natasha gave him a confused frown. "Yeah. It was. It was amazing. Was it good for you?"

"Oh, yeah. Hell yeah. I just…after last time I wanted to make sure you enjoyed yourself," he said, and he broke Natasha's heart in the process.

"I always do," she said with a frown. "Sometimes it just takes us a practice round, but trust me—I definitely enjoyed that sex we had."

A slow smile spread across Clint's face, and he visibly relaxed. "Yeah, I _was _pretty good, wasn't I?"

Natasha couldn't contain the eye roll and the laugh that spilled out of her, and she pushed Clint away from her. "Take out your hearing aids. I want to go to sleep."

"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am." Clint quickly removed the tiny pieces of plastic and set them on the nightstand before turning out the light. Now he had to rely on his senses of touch, taste, and smell. Without his aids, he couldn't hear very much at all, and in the dark, he could only make out shapes. If he were by himself or with another partner, he would have felt somewhat apprehensive about being this sense-deprived. If someone were to come in and try to kill him in the middle of the night, he probably wouldn't be able to stop it from happening. But with Natasha here? She had his back. He trusted her to be there for both of them, even though she'd never had to tell him that she would be. For them, it was just one of those understood and accepted things. They were partners. It was what they did.

Clint curled around Natasha and tucked his head against the back of her neck, breathing in her shampoo as he did so. He wanted to know how the hell he'd managed to land having her in his life, but he also wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Why question a good thing?

_You are my good thing_, he thought.

_You will always be my good thing, _he wanted to say.

_And I want to be yours_, crossed his mind right as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>The blow across the cheekbone was probably the worst one.<p>

Clint lay on the ground and tried to muster up enough strength to move, to hide, but he couldn't seem to get his arms to move. Maybe it was because the wind was still knocked out of him. If he didn't move fast enough, his dad would come back and lay into him again later if he felt like it, and Clint most definitely did not want to be at on the receiving end of his father's fists. Again.

"Clint! Clint! Get the hell up!" Barney's voice filled Clint's ear, and he registered his older brother's mess of reddish brown hair. Barney's face was kind of spinning, and if Clint didn't feel so shitty, he would have laughed. "Come on! If Dad comes back—you need to get up!"

"I—I can't," Clint gasped out, the first words he'd said since "I'm sorry" five minutes before.

"Ok, I've got you. It's going to hurt—" Barney didn't finish his sentence; he just hooked an arm under his small brother and started to lift him up. Sharp pain flashed through Clint's ribs, and for a second, the little blond boy thought he was going to pass out.

"Clint! Barney! Where the fuck are you?"

Clint saw Barney's head shoot up towards the house. "Come on, we'll get you to the barn. We'll hide there."

Before Clint could protest or agree or anything else, Barney took off running to the barn. He shouldn't have been able to run so fast, but Clint didn't weigh much at his young age. But Barney was too young to be so—God, Clint's cheekbone was killing him. Out of everywhere on his body that was on fire, his cheekbone felt like the place that flamed the most. He barely registered Barney taking him to the barn and hiding, nor did he register the stream of blood that had started to trickle from down his nose.

"Hey, Barn," he said suddenly, his voice tight and painful.

"What?" Barney hissed. He looked worried, as if he were still afraid that their father might find them in the barn.

"You look like Dad," Clint said. For a few seconds, Barney was still, but then he reached over and slapped Clint hard across the cheekbone, meriting a cry from the younger Barton.

"No, I don't," Barney snapped. "Don't say that again, you little punk."

"Boys! Where the hell are you?"

"Barn—"

"Stay back, and shut up, Clint. Shut up!"

And Clint stopped fighting. Barney would watch out for them. Barney always watched out for them.

* * *

><p>When Clint woke with strangled gasps and heaving breaths, Natasha sat beside him.<p>

When he went to the bathroom and sat on the cool tile floor for 15 minutes, she was still awake when he came out.

When he climbed back into bed, she tried to hold him, but he shook his head and held her, instead.

When he closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, he silently hoped that the Asgardian judicial system was brutal.

* * *

><p>"Status report, Agent Romanoff."<p>

"He's doing ok. Some moments are better than others."

"Natasha, you know I can't write that in the official report. I have to have more specifics."

"Maria—" Natasha glanced towards the door that led to one of the many guest rooms she was hiding in. "That's all I can really tell, ok? He still has nightmares, and sometimes he's better than others about them. One second he'll be Clint, and the next he'll be all moody and depressed."

"Mentally, how does he seem to be coping on the mission?" Maria asked. Natasha suppressed the urge to release an annoyed sigh into the phone—Maria was her friend. They'd been friends since Clint had brought Natasha to SHIELD, but Natasha didn't want to answer these questions, and she couldn't help taking it out on Maria, her handler.

"I don't know. It's only been two days," Natasha said, really struggling to keep the irritation out of her voice. "He handled himself beautifully at yesterday's luncheon. So far, the men of Tribiani Developing seem to love him."

"So he's still sharp? Still on top of things?"

"What? Yes. Yes, he's on top of things," Natasha replied.

"Has he exhibited any of the other possible symptoms we talked about? Incoherent rambling, erratic behavior, memory loss, or mental deterioration? Anything?"

And Natasha lied for the first time to her new handler.

"No."

* * *

><p>"I brought the wine! Oh, Faith, your apartment is beautiful. It will look so nice when you have it unpacked!" Francesca Tribiani swept into the large apartment that Natasha had spent that morning making look like a brand new moved in place. She took the wine from the woman's hand and smiled at Ariana and Sabrina as they also walked through the door.<p>

"Oh, yes, it's beautiful!" Sabrina exclaimed. "You know, I have heard many great things about this apartment building. You were lucky to be able to get in here."

"I know. I do feel pretty fortunate," Natasha replied.

"It is fine if I start with the wine?" Francesca asked, tossing a glance over her shoulder as she started looking around for the kitchen.

"Oh, yes. Of course. The kitchen is down that hallway, and you'll find it right there on your right," Natasha said.

"Perfect! I'll bring us all back some glasses. Are your glasses unpacked?" Francesca asked as she started making her way down the hall.

"Yes, they are!" Natasha called back, but it appeared that Francesca was already gone. The three women had only been there for about 15 seconds, and Natasha was already starting to feel completely overwhelmed.

"She's always making herself at home in people's houses. That's just her," Ariana spoke up by way of apology. "She's also fond of cracking the bottle open."

"But she always brings great wine," Sabrina added. "Faith, Francesca and Anthony's parties are the best—I can't wait until the next one so you and Jason can experience it."

"We do love a good party," Natasha remarked, careful not to sound too dry or sarcastic.

"Then you will love a Tribiani party," Sabrina replied. The clinking of glasses approaching down the hall caught Natasha's attention, and she looked in the direction of the sound to see Francesca holding two wine glasses in each hand and looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

"Your glasses are beautiful, Faith," she said. "I hope you don't mind me going and grabbing them. I always want people to feel like they can do anything they want in my house because they are friends, not guests, and I forget sometimes that not everyone has that same philosophy."

"Oh, no, I don't mind," Natasha quickly protested, taking her own glass from Francesca's hands. She glanced around at the three women and wondered what the hell they were going to do for the rest of the day. Inwardly, she sighed, but outwardly, she smiled and lifted the bottle in her hands. Then she told her second lie of the day. "We don't have anything to hide here."


	10. Run

**Shoutouts to TheNaggingCube, Rosay Chere Khann, EpicPackage, klausgirl4055, beverlie4055, Jo, AmeliaSkellig, Guest, pengineer, paranoid-mandroid, CreativeDreamer98, JustForFun45, SilverStream91, Agent Keene, MaddieFayeth96, and nikki for reviewing!**

**I know I've been keeping the memory loss thing under wraps and pretty vague, but this chapter finally addresses it. A little bit. We've got some foreshadowing in the first part, some Clintasha date night, and then some secrets coming out that have been boiling on the back burner for a while.**

**I have a Barton bros oneshot published on AO3 called _On Deaf Ears_ that's about Barney dealing with Clint's deafness. If you want to read it, my username is ThoughtfulConstellations, so feel free to!**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Fire" - Augustana. (MaddieFayeth96, I loved "Hazy," and I'm definitely saving it for a future chapter!)**

**As always, keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. They let me know if you think I'm messing up, and they help keep me on track with motivation!**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 10<p>

Two hours later and after five glasses of wine, Natasha found herself feeling the heavier part of the word "tipsy." She sat on the floor of her closet with her almost empty glass of wine while Sabrina, Ariana, and Francesca continued organizing shoes and scarves and everything else SHIELD had thought to supply the redheaded spy with in order to convince everyone that she was really who she said she was. Natasha had to give it to them—for rich as fuck women, they certainly worked at putting clothes away like they'd been born for the profession. She'd expected women who wouldn't really intend to help, women who would just sit off to the side and politely encourage Natasha as she got everything into place, but not these three. They worked, and they didn't complain, and they drank wine all while they did it.

If Natasha hadn't been undercover, she might have liked them.

"Faith, we know all about your sense of fashion and your taste in wine, and we even learned a little bit about how your husband got into the developing business, but how did you and Jason meet?" Ariana asked curiously. Natasha paused and smiled, thinking about the time she and Clint had met for the first time. In all reality, there hadn't been anything amusing about it at the time. He'd been there to kill her, and she'd been ready to kill him, but it was funny how just a few years' of distance from the actual event changed her perception of things. And also the fact that she'd wound up falling in love with him.

"Right out of college," she answered smoothly, her face soft and fond. "I was on vacation in Martha's Vineyard, and so was he. Wound up meeting through some mutual friends of ours having a party. One minute we're talking, the next minute, he's asking me for my number. Take it forward several years, and here we are married."

"That is precious. You have been together a while and seem to know each other very well," Ariana replied.

"Ariana's an expert in body language," Sabrina interjected. Hiding her smirk, Natasha lifted her eyebrows in feigned—though convincing—surprise.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes. I studied acting for several years. I wanted to pursue, you know, the starving artist life, but then I met my husband, and I set that aside," Ariana replied with a casual shrug.

"She didn't start out rich, and neither did I. We were poor girls," Francesca spoke up, lifting up a pretty sleeveless blouse that Natasha reminded herself to take with her whenever she was done with this mission. SHIELD was so used to her taking her covers' clothing that they'd stopped reprimanding her for it years ago. Originally, Coulson had covered for her in the official mission reports by saying that something had happened to several pieces of the clothing, but as the years had progressed and the continued disappearances of clothes became suspicious, he'd finally just started writing, "Agent Romanoff took it." No one had gone to her to get the clothes back, so Natasha had continued her trend of taking what she liked. And of course, she always justified it by saying that with the line of work she was in, she deserved some free clothes that fit that hadn't required hours of trying on or browsing through internet sites.

Natasha paused as she processed Francesca's words. Just from looking at the Italian woman, all perfect eyebrows and deep-conditioned hair, she never would have thought that Francesca hadn't been raised in the glamorous life she now lived in. But then again, Natasha knew more than anyone else that looks could be deceiving. As she looked at Francesca, she knew that Anthony Tribiani's wife saw her as a white little rich girl who'd vacationed in Martha's Vineyard and met her wealthy husband after graduating from some Ivy League school. None of these wives ever could have known Natasha's true backstory.

"I never would have known," she said carefully, trying not to look like a total diva princess, even though that was the kind of person she was supposed to be pulling off just then.

"Breed money, buy money. No big deal," Francesca replied with a casual shrug. "I married into money, and I no longer have to worry about my mother."

Natasha opened her mouth to ask Francesca what she meant by that, but Sabrina interrupted her. "Faith, for an American woman, you have excellent taste in shoes."

"Thank you," Natasha answered, smiling widely as she pretended to miss what may or may not have been an insult; she wasn't entirely sure.

"And in men," Francesca added. Natasha beamed at this odd assortment of who would make up her friends for the next few monthswhile she tried to look demure and fake-shy about the whole thing, the way Faith would pull it off.

"Jason's just the best," she gushed. "He really stepped up for the company after his father died. He had a lot on his plate, but he's determined. He wants to live up to his father's reputation."

"And he certainly has," Sabrina agreed. Natasha wondered what Sabrina, Ariana, and Francesca would think once they learned that Dantoni Land Inc. was made up, a completely fabricated name that had been existing within SHIELD for years to create a mission just like this.

"I'll take your glasses, guys," she announced suddenly. Standing up from her spot on the floor, she felt wobbly and a little off balance as she realized the alcohol was hitting her.

"I'll help," Francesca added, jumping up and taking Ariana's glass while Natasha grabbed Sabrina's. As they walked into the hall and started the long journey back to the kitchen through the enormous apartment, Natasha felt Francesca look over at her. "We are all very happy you are here, Faith. The company has seen some hard times, and it's refreshing to have someone new around."

"Hard times?" Natasha asked, genuinely confused—SHIELD hadn't mentioned anything about hard times. Was Tribiani Developing struggling financially? Surely SHIELD would have mentioned if there were anything going on. Francesca vaguely nodded and kept looking straight ahead as she walked.

"Some rival stuff going on," she said. "So it's good that we have Jason here to take away from some of the bad. And it's good that you're here, too."

"Well, thank you," Natasha replied. And ever the espionage expert she was, she slid right into what she knew how to do best: interrogation. "It's always stressful having another company threaten your business."

"Oh, yes. It's upset Anthony a lot." Francesca gave Natasha a knowing look, and Natasha nodded sympathetically, crossing beside her towards the sink in the kitchen. "This company is his heart and soul, and it's very upsetting to him that there's someone who isn't out to fully support what the company stands for."

Now that didn't make any sense, Natasha wanted to say. What on Earth could that possibly have meant?

"Oh, exactly," she wound up replying. "I completely understand. Well, Anthony seems like the kind of guy who can take care of things like that. He seems to have a good head for business."

"Yes." Francesca's face changed, and she became just a little bit more tight-lipped, signaling that the conversation had made her think of something unpleasant. "And so does Jason. That's why Dantoni Land Inc. has been so successful. First his father and now him."

"I would agree," Natasha said with a smile.

"He's only been in the business a few years, no?" Francesca asked. She set the glasses in her hands in the sink and turned to face Natasha, her face serious and one hand on her hip as she leaned against the edge of the counter.

"Yes," Natasha slowly replied. Francesca squinted her eyes slightly and studied Natasha's face for a few brief moments.

"Don't let him get lost in it," she said finally. "It can be difficult not to. Especially here. But keep a good handle on him. Make him talk to you. Help him make decisions. The _right _decisions."

Natasha knew that there was something beneath the advice, but she didn't know what exactly. She could see in the way that Francesca looked at her that the woman was talking about something else, advising her to do something that she hadn't done. Ariana might have been the body language reader out of the Tribiani Developing wives, but Natasha was the body language reader of STRIKE Team: Delta. She saw by the way Francesca held her tension and kept almost too casual of a stance that there was something off about all of this, even though she couldn't identify what.

"Ok," she said brightly. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the advice."

"Of course." The seriousness that had passed over Francesca's face was gone, and in its place was that easy friendliness she'd shown the entire time she'd been there. "You know, it's great that you got out of the states when you did. All those aliens coming out of the sky."

"Oh, yeah." Natasha kept a calm but worried look on her face. "They weren't letting people leave the States for a while, but Jason managed to get around it. He used some connections, and we hightailed it out of there."

"Who ever would have thought? Aliens? I don't know. There seems something fishy to me. But as long as they stay out of Italy, I think I'm ok," Francesca replied. Reaching out, she put a hand on Natasha's shoulder and nodded towards the hallway. "Let's get back. Your clothes will not unpack themselves."

Slipping back into the part of rich wife, Natasha laughed and nodded. "Oh, isn't that the truth?"

She walked down the hall back to the closet in her bedroom, repeating that question over and over in her head. Francesca hadn't lied to her, but Francesca hadn't told her everything. Clint's mission had always been to infiltrate the company and get intel; well, Natasha's mission was just as interesting and complex: infiltrate the wives and get intel. If there were a truth for Natasha to discover, she would. Without a doubt.

* * *

><p>The weeks passed, and before they knew it, STRIKE Team: Delta had established a routine for their covers. Clint wound up doing much more business work than he ever would have thought he'd have to do—and he hated every second of it—and Natasha wound up spending lots of time mingling and shopping and doing that CEO-wife thing that she wasn't particularly fond of but had somehow now become her life.<p>

Clint's nightmares continued, but he never spoke about them. He kept those images quietly to himself while he let Natasha hold him and smooth her hand over his cheekbone until he fell asleep. Neither of them spoke about Coulson.

If Natasha believed that Clint was really ok whenever he insisted that he was, she would have been an idiot. Which is why every time he told her that he was fine, a sheen of sweat over his face as his blue eyes went from looking panicked to frustrated after a nightmare, she didn't believe him. She knew Clint better than that, and she would be damned to believe that that was the truth because she _knew _what Clint was like when he was ok—she knew how he handled bad missions and got over them, and he hadn't gotten over New York. Not yet.

And the thing was, Natasha couldn't blame him. What had happened hadn't been some simple gunshot wound to the side; hell, she would have taken a bullet any day than go through what Clint had. She knew firsthand that having someone fuck with your mind was far less preferable than a wound that would heal and leave only a scar in its place. Clint's mind would heal—she hoped—but she wasn't sure the scar would ever really close.

As for his memory gaps, she couldn't quite figure out a connection between the pieces he was missing. Every time she put together on why certain parts of his memory just didn't seem to be there, he would blow her theory to shreds by referencing a past mission she didn't expect him to remember or faking the memory of a moment she'd expected him _to _remember. It was a long, complicated process that she wasn't enjoying. It was also a long, complicated process that she was keeping secret from Maria.

Halfway through their third week, Palmer was tied up analyzing several hours' worth of meetings that Clint had bugged, and Clint suggested something he and Natasha hadn't done in a very long time.

"Want to go out tonight?" he asked, sitting down on the coffee table in front of Natasha. He lifted her feet and put them on his lap as he looked at her reading on the couch. She looked up from her book and gazed at him curiously.

"Like…out?" she asked.

"Yeah. Out," Clint confirmed.

"As in outside? Go out? That's a vague question, Barton."

"Ok, now you're just being a smartass. Do you want to go out to dinner? We can walk around. Do some sightseeing things. Look—I got off early today, so we can actually go out and make a nice evening of it. Date night," Clint said. He watched Natasha's face change at the mention of date night. Gone was the apprehension and playfulness—now she looked genuinely interested and, well, wanting. She looked like she wanted to.

"Date night?" she repeated.

"Date night," he said with a nod. She paused and glanced out the window, judging the darkness outside. "Come on. When was the last time we actually had a date? I've been working all the time, and you've been—"

"—working, too," Natasha finished for him with raised eyebrows. "Just because I'm out shopping instead of sitting in meetings talking about mergers or whatever developing shit you guys talk about doesn't mean I'm not working, either. My job is to infiltrate the wives and figure out what the hell's going on and what Francesca meant when she said that the company's having issues with a rival."

"I know you're working," Clint protested. "I wasn't going to imply any kind of patriarchal bullshit about you doing nothing and having fun while I slaved away for the money all day."

"Watch yourself," she warned when she saw Clint's teasing smirk slide over his mouth. "Fine. Date night. We'll have to call each other Faith and Jason while we're out, but that's about the best we can do under these circumstances. Feel bad about leaving Palmer here, though. He's going to be knee deep in those recordings you got."

"He loves that kind of shit," Clint said dismissively. "Get dressed. We're going out, we're going to get dinner, we're going to walk around, and then we're going to come back here, and I'm going to spend some good quality time between your legs."

"Well," Natasha remarked, her throat going dry. Carefully, knowing that Clint was watching her every move for some kind of a reaction, she stood up and cleared her throat primly. "Let me go put on something a little more suitable for tonight."

"Naked would be suitable!" Clint called as she walked down the hall. When he saw the middle finger of her right hand shoot up, he let out a quiet chuckle and pushed a hand through his short hair. He needed to get it cut, but finding a place to cut hair was always a pain. Honestly, about 90% of the time, Natasha cut his hair, anyway. It wasn't because she was particularly amazing at cutting his hair or because they were trying to save money—he just kind of liked it. She cut it to a length that was short without looking ridiculous, and he trusted her enough to hold a pair of scissors to his head without worrying about her stabbing him in the jugular halfway through the cut.

That was the thing about Natasha, he realized as he stood up to go join her in getting ready for their night out; she had held a gun to his head, and he'd trusted her not to pull the trigger. Even now, she could have held a knife to his throat with the blade pressing in just enough to draw blood, and he would still trust her not to kill him. Though really, it wasn't the thought of either of those that made him stop and think twice. If anything, it was the realization that she held his heart and his soul, and he trusted her to keep them both in tact.

_Well_, he thought to himself, silently treading through the hall, _I guess that's either love or stupidity._

Little did he know that he would soon find out.

* * *

><p>Natasha took a long sip of her pinot grigio, closing her eyes in pleasure. "Mmm. Now that is some good wine. I do love that about Italy."<p>

"I'd kill for a beer," Clint mumbled. Natasha shot him a quick look.

"_Jason_," she said pointedly, "you know beer isn't good for you."

He rolled his eyes as he picked up on the fact that she was warning him he was supposed to be Jason and not Clint. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table in a very un-Jason-like way. "I'm off the clock. Jason Dantoni can have a beer when he's off the clock. Work Jason and Play Jason are two very different types of Jasons."

"So I can tell," Natasha drily remarked.

"I think Sabrina has a thing for me," Clint said suddenly, changing the subject. Natasha's eyes shot up to look at his face, and she lifted her red eyebrows in a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"Sabrina?" she asked. "My friend Sabrina?"

"Oh, yeah, you're friend Sabrina. She stopped by the office today, and we talked. She gushed for a long time about you and how amazing you are," he said. He smiled as he saw Natasha's unchanged expression. "I kind of gushed and went on about how amazing you are, too."

"Oo, is Jason going to cheat on Faith?" Natasha tilted her head to the side as Clint rolled his eyes and let out a short snort.

"As if," he replied. "You, love of my life, are it for me."

"Yeah, yeah." Natasha took another swallow of her wine. "Goddamn, this was a good dinner. You know, the food _and _the wine are perfect here. Let's stay here forever."

"I could do that," Clint said. Normally, Natasha wouldn't have thought much of the way he'd said it, but there was something in his voice that made her stop and look extra hard at him. He was gazing at her with a quiet question on his face that completely threw her, something she wasn't used to. She felt that she could read Clint without even needing to look at him, but the way he was looking at her now was something she couldn't read.

"Is that…a thing?" she asked, unsure of how to approach what she felt Clint was implying without blatantly breaking their cover.

"It wouldn't be bad," Clint said with a shrug. "So you ready to leave? Go on a walk and walk some of that food off?"

"Yeah. They have our tab?" Natasha asked. She wanted to push the issue of what he'd meant by that expression, but he'd already changed the subject, and there was no way she could go back to it without risking ruining the evening.

"Yep. One of the perks of being insufferably rich," Clint quipped. Natasha pushed her chair back and stepped out, taking Clint's arm when he offered it to her. She didn't much like doing the arm-holding thing, but it was such a Faith and Jason thing to do that she had to, so she did. After nodding at the host and making their way outside, she let out a quiet breath. "You ok?"

"Yeah. Just tired," she said honestly. "It's been a long day."

"It's been a long three weeks," Clint corrected.

"It's been a long five months," Natasha countered. Clint was quiet, understanding that she was also referring to the time they'd spent apart while he'd been at PEGASUS.

"Well, I'm with you now," Clint said softly. He was rewarded by Natasha tightening her grasp on his arm just a little bit as she moved in closer to him. "What do you want to do? We can do anything you like."

"I just want to walk. Is that ok?" Natasha asked.

"Of course that's ok," Clint replied. He lowered his arm and let her hand slide into his, his fingers lacing with hers and locking loosely into place. They didn't get to walk and touch like this back home as Clint and Natasha; it was too risky for them to be seen so closely attached. If an enemy saw them, they would have compromised the safety of the other, and if anyone from work saw them, it'd be fucking annoying having to put up with workplace drama.

For a few minutes, they simply walked together in silence, neither of them feeling the need to fill the silence with sound. That was one of Natasha's favorite parts about their relationship. They didn't have to always talk. They could exist with each and feel perfectly at ease. Sometimes it surprised her how well she was able to adjust to having him around her all the time. When they'd first made the decision to move in together, she'd been terrified at the prospect of having him so close with no outlet. Granted, she and Clint had spent most of their time together anyway, but it was more the principle of the thing that had terrified her.

And yet they'd made the transition with ease. Whenever Natasha needed to get away, she did, and whenever Clint needed time to himself, he took it. Their relationship had always been that way, she thought to herself as she looked down at their clasped hands. Public displays of affection were brand new for her, though, since they couldn't do this back home. But again, here she was making this transition with ease.

"Someone's thinking," Clint said out loud, breaking her train of thought. She glanced up at him and gave him a half-smile.

"Look at us. We're being all PDA-y," she said.

"Well, you're the first to make me want to be," Clint answered. She tilted her head to the side and slightly shook her head to indicate that she wasn't speaking as Faith.

"I mean _really_," she said.

"So do I," he replied with a knowing look. Out of nowhere, Natasha felt her chest ache, and she looked up at the sky with the millionth reminder passing through her head that she'd almost lost him. She'd been with Clint many times when he'd been shot or had fallen off a building or had some other horrible accident happen to him, and each time, she thought she was going to stop breathing for fear that even in the time passing with that one breath, he would be gone. However, nothing had made her more afraid than when she'd heard and understood the situation with Loki. She hadn't even fully understood Loki's intentions until she'd spoken with him, and it'd just been a cruel wake up that had shaken her so badly she'd almost felt her head spin.

"What do you think happens when we die?" she asked suddenly. She felt Clint's forearm tense against hers.

"I don't know," he said, his voice terse and short.

"What's your theory?" she asked.

"I don't have one," he replied. She looked up at him and saw his face tight and drawn in. He refused to look at her, and she knew that that was on purpose.

"I don't think anything happens," she said.

"Natasha." His voice came out as a whisper, so quiet that if anyone had heard it, it would have sounded like the wind. Natasha pressed her lips together and didn't say anything, even though she wanted to keep going with the subject. Clint almost always talked with her about everything. They'd discussed testing products on animals (both of them opposed) to the existential crisis (both of them in 100% understanding that they suffered from it) to even some talk of their pasts (both of them tried to avoid that as much as possible). Natasha could talk to Clint about anything, but suddenly, he was shutting down on her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. Some of the tension drained out of his jaw at her two quiet words, and he shot her a guilty look.

"I didn't mean to…I'm sorry," he sighed. "I just…I don't want to think about that after New York…I mean…I don't want to think that because of me, Coulson—" He stopped talking and looked away, his face taut with pain.

"Hey. Clint, listen to me," Natasha said as she kept her voice low. Gently, she pulled him out of the main walkway and down an alley to where it was perfectly quiet and private. She stopped and looked up at him, her hand still wrapped in his. "That wasn't your fault. You don't have to keep blaming yourself for what happened to Coulson because that wasn't your fault. There wasn't anything you could have done to stop it."

"But it_ was _my fault," Clint insisted in frustration. He pulled his hand away from hers and ran it down the side of his face. "You don't get it, Natasha. Loki got inside my head and pulled out all of my shitty memories. And what comes with shitty memories? Shitty emotions. So he brought those to the front of my brain and shut and locked the exit door so they had nowhere to go. I was working purely on my own anger and—and fucked up feelings from my past. They were all my emotions, and they were all me."

"That was what _Loki _did to you—there's a difference!" Natasha protested, but Clint firmly shook his head.

"No, there's no fucking difference. All of those emotions existed within me. They started inside me, and Loki just brought them out and made it so I couldn't get rid of them. That's all he did," Clint snapped. "I should have…I should've done something. It was my hands that killed those agents, who, by the way, you still won't tell me the body count for, and it was because of me that Loki was able to get onto the helicarrier and kill Coulson."

"You can say it all you want, but you won't be able to convince me that that was you," Natasha snapped in return.

"How can you do that?" Clint exclaimed, his voice rising in volume. "How can you stand there and listen to all this shit that I'm telling you about the fucked up kind of person I am and defend me? Natasha, I killed agents. Probably some of our friends, but no one will tell me. I killed…God, I don't get you."

"And it's a bad thing that I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't really do all of this horrible shit you're blaming yourself for?" Natasha asked incredulously. "Is that what you're trying to say, Clint?"

"Natasha, you _don't _know me as well as you think you do because I was going to kill you." The words flowed so easily from Clint's mouth that he hadn't realized that they were coming until they were there. He froze and watched Natasha's body lock up as she understood what he'd just revealed.

"But you didn't," she said slowly. "You didn't try to kill me. Not…not _really _kill me. What happened on the helicarrier was more like us sparring than anything. That's not how you would fight if you were trying to kill me."

Clint looked away. He couldn't look at her as he spoke his next confession. He desperately wished he could keep it inside, but now that it was out there, the truth just kept coming. "I wasn't trying to kill you then. I was just trying to knock you out so I could get you back to our headquarters where I could torture you and kill you. Loki's orders."

Natasha's throat tightened up, and she tried to think of something to do or say. Her first instinct was to run. To turn and run very far away, but she couldn't seem to think. No matter how hard she tried, her brain just couldn't manage to form any kind of command. So she stood there, still and quiet as she mentally screamed. One half of her wanted to tell Clint that she didn't believe him. No, she _couldn't _believe him. But the other half of her knew that he was telling the truth. More than anyone else, she knew that Clint hated himself, but he would never tell her anything like this, anything that would hurt her and make her question him, unless it was 100% true.

"Natasha…say something," Clint said, his voice verging on pleading. Natasha had never heard him plead before. Not outside the quiet confines of their apartment when they were torturing each other with the quiet promises of each other's bodies. Not like this.

_I can't breathe_, she thought.

_I can't breathe, _her wanted to shout.

_I can't breathe_, she longed to scream.

"What else are you keeping from me?" Natasha asked, completely ignoring the confession that he'd seriously been planning on torturing her and murdering her. She sounded stilted and robotic, and in a flash, she was reminded of all those years ago when she'd first been brought into SHIELD and how stiff and distant she'd been.

"Nothing. I—I didn't—"

"Nothing?" Natasha snapped. "Absolutely nothing?"

Clint was quiet. Caught.

"So you want to tell me that all those gaps in your memory are _nothing_? That's not something you want to share with me?" The momentum of her sentences began to build. "When were you going to tell me that? I'm guessing you weren't planning on it since I don't think you were even planning on telling me about your orders to kill me."

"Natasha, I didn't—I don't want you to—"

"To what, Clint? Help you? Have your back?" Her words were like venom, and she knew it, but she couldn't stop. Suddenly, her breath came out in a deep shaking gasp as the shock of everything hit her square in the solar plexus, and her body unlocked, allowing her to stumble a few steps back. "I need to—I need to go."

"Natasha? Natasha—"

"Please don't, Clint. I can't—please—" She couldn't say anything else, nor could she look at him because if she looked at him, by God, she knew she'd fight back her instincts and stay, and she didn't think she could do that. Instead, she just turned over her shoulder and looked away, silently thanking herself for knowing how to move in heels. And so she gave into the fear and the shock, and she let herself do something she hadn't done in a very long time. She ran.


	11. Secrets

**Shoutouts to Black Betty, Agent Keene, beverlie4055, Rosay Chere Khann, Maite Sanchez, AmeliaSkellig, yornma, CreativeDreamer98, TheNaggingCube, paranoid-mandroid, Jo, Black Widow and Hawkeye OTP, MaddieFayeth96, EpicPackage, pengineer, and clintashainthetardis for reviewing!**

**I know I'm a day late in my upload, so I'm really sorry about that! This week has been a bit crazy in trying to get things done! **

**I had a question on what AO3 is. AO3 is a website called Archive of our Own (archiveofourown . org), and it's the other site on which I upload my stuff. It's actually my preferred website of choice, so that's why I have more Clint/Natasha oneshots on there instead of here. I think AO3 is more open to darker content, and sometimes I can write some pretty dark stuff. Speaking of AO3, I published a Matt Murdock/Kirsten McDuffie oneshot there called _Leveling Out_, so if you read the Daredevil comics and want to look at it, feel free to =)**

**This chapter has some pain and some light stuff. We have Clint & Palmer bro bonding, and we finally get some insight into what's going on at Tribiani Developing.**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Hazy" - Rosi Golan ft. William Fitzsimmons. (Thanks for the rec, MaddieFayeth96! Also, FITZSIMMONS OH MY GOD.)**

**As always, keep reviewing. Some of y'all's reviews have me literally laughing out loud. Oh my God. Ok. You guys are the best. Please, please, please keep it up!**

**Enjoy! =)**

**(AndSoIWrite wrote the last line because I butchered it to shreds the first time around.)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

Clint stood still and watched Natasha's retreating back. His tongue felt thick and heavy, and his jaw was locked tight, meaning that if he wanted to shout her name, he couldn't even do it. All he could do was stand there in that damn alley in fucking Italy and watch Natasha run away without looking back at him.

The irony of the whole situation struck him hard just then. Whenever he and Natasha fought, something that was very rare to begin with, _he _was the one to walk away. _He _was the one who needed to get to the roof and sit up there with miles and miles of open air for him to breathe. Granted, it was polluted air, but it was air nonetheless. Natasha, on the other hand, was the one who retreated into a room, preferring to stay somewhere enclosed and safe. And yet, Clint noticed, this time Natasha was the one running away because she couldn't cope, and he was the one retreating to their apartment.

The apartment. He should probably get back there, he reasoned to himself. Numbly, he turned over his shoulder and started walking. As ridiculous as he knew it was, part of him wanted to stay there in that same spot in hopes that Natasha might come back to find him, and he wanted to still be there. He wanted to show her that even though he hadn't been there for her on the helicarrier, he was here for her now. But he knew that she wouldn't try to find him in the spot she'd left him, so it didn't make sense to stay there.

He continued to walk through the city, oblivious to everything that was happening in the world around him. Had he done the right thing by telling Natasha he'd tried to kill her? He had no idea. Hell, Natasha was the one with all the answers. Whenever he tried to remember how to spell a word or which city was the capitol of Romania, Natasha was always there at his side, over his shoulder, peering around the corner with an answer.

Clint's mind was working hard on overtime as he walked. He was thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time, and his thoughts were moving at such high speeds that he couldn't really figure each one out and deal with them as they came. All he could do was move forward and get back to the apartment.

Finally, the familiar building was in front of him, and he was climbing the emergency stairs instead of taking the fancy elevator provided in the lobby. He knew it'd be a long hike up, but he didn't care. Clint preferred the stairs, anyway, and he'd kind of missed walking up them—Jason Dantoni wouldn't be caught dead taking the stairs—since he'd been using the elevator so much.

By the time he reached the floor of his apartment, his legs and his lungs burned, but Clint's mind wasn't any less quiet. If anything, the fact that his muscles were on fire made his brain feel even antsier, which wasn't a good thing. He pushed the door to the stairwell open and crossed into the hall of the building, walking until he was in front of the door. With a quick twist of his key, he was inside.

He paused when he stepped over the threshold. This was usually the moment when he felt at home. Home was such a funny concept for both him and Natasha. Spies like them could easily adjust to new places and feel at ease with calling it home after only a couple weeks. However, he had learned a long time ago, just as Natasha had, that home was each other.

Clint remembered one specific moment in the jungles of South America when he and Natasha had been waiting for an emergency extraction. Natasha had a bullet in her thigh, and Clint had a sprained ankle, but they'd sat still underneath one of those tall beautiful trees in the rainforest and waited. He remembered that he hadn't felt unhappy or regretful or anything—in fact, he remembered thinking that if their extraction team never came, he and Natasha would have been ok by themselves just for a little while. To Clint, home wasn't their apartment in New York, London, Chicago, or wherever else they were. Home was Natasha. Angry Natasha, happy Natasha, pensive Natasha, each and every single kind of Natasha was home.

Slowly, Clint forced himself to move, and he worked his way towards the kitchen. As he neared it, he heard someone rummaging around, and he stopped in his tracks, wondering if he were really all that in the mood to see Palmer. But he didn't have to wait long because just as he started to move to turn around, Palmer walked out into the hall.

"I thought I heard the door open," Palmer said, holding half a loaf of fresh Italian bread in his hand. "Where's Romanoff?"

Clint willed himself to speak, but nothing came out. The only sound between the two former partners was silence, and it was deafening. Palmer lifted his dark eyebrows in confusion and leaned his head forward. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh…" Clint thought of something more intelligent to say, but he couldn't get his brain to work right. What was he even supposed to say? He couldn't figure out what was going on, let alone tell Palmer what was happening. "Well…"

"Barton, where's Romanoff?" Palmer repeated. Clint lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as he did so.

"Uh…she's not here," he said lamely.

"The fuck? The fuck does that mean? Is she ok?" Palmer asked, worry passing over his face. "Jesus, Barton, what the hell's going on?"

"Well…we had a talk, and she, uh, she left," he said. He watched Palmer's eyebrows draw in tight together as he realized something was off. Carefully, his former partner scanned him up and down as if he were looking for something.

"Clint, did you do something to her?" he asked. Instantly, Clint felt something inside himself snap, and the next thing he knew, he had Palmer pinned up against the wall, the heels of his palms pressing into the tech genius's shoulders.

"You piece of shit, you want to say that again? She left, ok? She left. I didn't fucking touch her." Roughly, he released Palmer as if all the energy had drained out of his body, and he stepped away, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Are you fucking kidding me? You just asked me if I—for fuck's sake—"

"Dude, I'm not trying to piss you off," Palmer replied, his voice relatively even, considering it'd been two years or longer since the last time he and Clint had sparred or done anything to train together. He wasn't much of a field agent as it was, generally flinching whenever anyone threw a punch or a dirty look his way, but tonight, he didn't seem all that shaken by it.

"Then why the fuck would you say something so fucking stupid?" Clint snapped. Palmer held his hands up as if he were surrendering.

"Romanoff's not the only one afraid you're going to wig out, ok?" he asked. "You're a mess, man."

"What the fuck—"

"Barton." Palmer's voice was quiet but firm, and he stared evenly at Clint. "You can lie to us all you like, but you're not fucking fooling anyone. I don't know if you forgot, but we've known each other for 10 years. I know you pretty fucking well, ok?"

"Then you'd know I'd never do anything to…" Clint stopped speaking, remembering how easily he'd fallen under Loki's control, how easily it'd been for him to agree to killing Natasha. As soon as Loki had told him he was ordered to kill her, Clint hadn't felt a thing. He'd said ok, and he'd set about to planning how he was going to drain the life out of her. Telling Palmer that he'd never do anything to hurt Natasha was a lie because he'd almost killed her.

"Barton, what _happened_?" Palmer asked. Clint glowered at Palmer, his jaw taut as his eyes blazed. "Barton?"

"I told her something really fucked up that happened before New York, and she…she needed space." Clint kept his words even and flat, completely devoid of emotion. If he let any ounce of emotion show, he wouldn't be able to hold it back, and he didn't trust anyone other than Natasha to be there to witness it.

"Shit," Palmer said. He took a breath and looked down at the floor. "Shit."

"Yeah," Clint curtly agreed. The two men stood in silence for a long time, the total opposite of each other. Clint was tall and wide, taking up space with his anger and his pain while Felix Palmer was dark and gangly, quietly observing the way he always did. Finally, Palmer ripped off a chunk of bread and handed it to Clint. The archer stared at it in confusion. "What?"

"Bread. Take it," Palmer replied, holding it out further.

"Ok, Jesus," Clint muttered, but he took the bread, anyway. "Why the hell are you giving me this?"

"Food makes everything better. Not 100% better. But a little bit." Palmer shrugged as if to apologize for the fact that that was the best he could really do. Clint looked at the chunk of food in his hand and frowned at it. He'd just eaten, and he wasn't all that hungry, but he lifted the bread and took a bite. "Know where she is?"

Clint shook his head. "Nope."

"She say when she's going to be back?"

"Nope."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"No. I am."

* * *

><p>Being out in the open air was too vulnerable for Natasha. She needed to be someplace with a roof and walls, someplace that made her feel protected instead of exposed. As soon as she turned the corner and knew that Clint couldn't see her, she pulled her phone out and dialed one of the few numbers she used there in Italy.<p>

"Faith?" Francesca's voice filled her ear after just a few seconds.

"Hey, Francesca. What are you doing tonight?" Natasha asked. She didn't know why she felt nervous making this call; over the past three weeks, she had bonded with Francesca more than she'd bonded with Ariana or Sabrina, but still. Calling someone up to hang out because she couldn't go back to her apartment with Clint was so unlike Natasha she felt like screaming.

"Nothing. Anthony's working late tonight, I think, but other than that, I don't have anything. Do you want to do something?" Francesca asked. Natasha's pace slowed to a stop, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply and quietly. She sure as hell didn't trust Francesca, but she definitely appreciated that the woman had put forth the offer to get together so she didn't have to.

"Yes," she said. "I would love to. Do you mind if we do something like, a quiet night in? Just us and some bottles of wine?"

"You read my mind. I'll let Silvio know you're coming so he can let you in."

"Perfect. I should be there in about 15 minutes. I'm not that far."

"Ok. I'll see you shortly."

"See you soon." Natasha hung up the phone and swallowed hard. Had she really just done that? It seemed like something Faith Dantoni would do, but right just then, she felt that she needed to be Natasha Romanoff. But then again, she felt that she couldn't handle being Natasha. Smoothing a hand over her red hair, she pressed her lips together and made herself take a step forward.

She'd known that Clint had intended to kill her. Well, she hadn't known, but she'd suspected deep, deep down in the darkest places of her heart that she tried to pretend didn't exist. To some degree, she'd known it, but she'd told herself no. If anyone would give into darkness, it would be her, not Clint. Clint had such a good heart, and he meant to do well. But her? Not as much. She wasn't in the same boat as Clint, nor had she ever fooled herself into thinking that she was. So the realization that Clint had fully meant to kill her shook her to her very core.

Quickly, she started to walk. She knew where Francesca's penthouse was, and she'd been running around Venice for three weeks now enough to know how to get there from where she was. Something that she and Clint shared in common was their ease with directions—once they saw how to get somewhere the first time, they never needed to look at a map again. Natasha had always wondered if Clint had been trained in that or if it were just natural; for her, it was training, just like most everything about her was.

Before she knew it, she was being ushered into Francesca's penthouse, smiling and greeting Silvio, one of the Tribianis' security men whom Natasha had had to pretend to not know when she'd first met him. Technically, she didn't _know _him, but she'd read his file in the mission packet that filled her in on everything to do with the Tribianis and Tribiani Developing.

"Faith?" Francesca appeared in the doorway, dressed more casually than Natasha had ever seen her. The dark-haired woman had her thick dark hair up in a bun and was wearing sweatpants and a loose tank top. For just a second, Natasha felt way overdressed in her blouse, jeans, leather jacket, and heels, but she brushed away the insecurity as she remembered that she could kill someone with a quick twist of her thighs. She always found it funny that that was the consolation she chose to use whenever she felt insecure about something, she thought to herself as she smiled at Francesca.

"Yeah, it's me," she replied.

"I have Marta pulling out a bottle of white wine for us. I figured the way you sounded over the phone, we could go for some champagne. It's a treat yourself night," Francesca said. Natasha felt her smile go thin, realizing that she'd let too much of her emotions slip earlier on the phone.

"Yeah, I can use some of the strong stuff," she said.

"If you ever want any vodka, we have plenty of that, too," Francesca offered with a shrug. "Come on in. We can sit and wait for the wine. If we want, we can always have some food."

Natasha crossed behind Francesca and walked through the large, spacious halls until they reached the living room. Only two days before, Natasha had been there helping Ariana plan an event for next Saturday to help raise money for a local environmental awareness company that worked closely with Tribiani Development. It had been good for Natasha to see the guest list and the names of all the people who were coming; in fact, many of the names she'd recognized as allies of Tribiani Development, and she'd tucked that information away in her head.

"What's going on?" Francesca asked. She crossed to the couch and sat down, gesturing with her hand for Natasha to sit on the opposite side. Careful not to betray any emotions that were dueling inside herself, Natasha smiled and gave a trite shrug, appearing as cavalier and unbothered as the next person.

"Minor fight with Jason. Just needed some space," she said.

"Oh, no. What's that boy done?" Francesca asked.

Natasha wrinkled her nose and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, it's stupid. Sometimes we get into stupid arguments about little things."

"Has Anthony been keeping him at the office for too long? I can talk to Anthony and have him let Jason go an hour early or so if that's something that concerns you." Francesca's face instantly became concerned, and Natasha listened to the commanding tone in her friend's voice. She tilted her head to the side with interest and decided to play a new angle. Even though she couldn't fully put a lid on everything that had happened with Clint just 20 minutes before, she could channel that energy and restlessness into her work.

"Could you do that?" she asked with a disbelieving laugh. "God, if I ever tried to get Jason to come home early on his own, he'd never do it. Never listens to me, that man."

"Anthony knows better," Francesca said. Her voice didn't betray anything, but Natasha noticed the way Francesca's body language became almost too casual, too disconnected from the conversation as if she were purposefully trying to divert attention from the words themselves.

"Teach me your ways," Natasha murmured. "I need to get Jason to do that."

Francesca smiled and looked away. "Actually, I had a question. I remember you saying that you and Jason met a party, but then you said that you'd met at a fundraiser."

"Same thing," Natasha said dismissively with a mild eye roll. "Bunch of bored people in fancy dresses and overpriced tuxedos."

"Oh, I understand that," Francesca said, softly laughing. "You know, if someone had told me 10 years ago that I would be married to one of the wealthiest men in Italy, I would have laughed in their face."

"How did you and Anthony meet?" Natasha asked, genuinely curious. "You know how Jason and I met, but you never told me your story."

"That's actually a fun story." Francesca smiled as her face grew softer with the memory. "Tribiani Developing was going to do something with the land very close to the town I grew up in, so he and the other men in charge were there a lot. He came to my family's restaurant, and one thing led to another, and here we are today."

"That's so cute," Natasha cooed. "I love listening to stories like that."

"Yeah, I love telling it. It might not be the most romantic story, but it's something. It's definitely the moment when my life turned around," Francesca replied. Before Natasha could answer, her phone started vibrating. Sickness filled her as she thought about Clint, knowing that it was him calling her, but she pulled out her phone to look, anyway. She blinked in surprise when she saw the Caller ID: Aunt Caroline. Technically, Aunt Caroline was code for Maria Hill, and so that meant Maria was calling her.

Natasha glanced up apologetically at Francesca. "This is my aunt. I've got to take it. I'll be right back."

"Oh, take your time! Seriously, you're fine!" Francesca reassured, watching Natasha get up and scramble off to the closest bathroom. As Natasha walked off, she slid her thumb across the screen to answer the call and put the phone up to her ear.

"Aunt Caroline! I know I said I'd call you earlier, but things have just slipped away, and with the time difference here, I totally forgot. I'm so sorry." She turned into the bathroom and shut the door behind her, locking it before turning around and running the faucet to drown out the sound of her conversation.

"You clear?" Maria asked.

"Yeah, now I am," Natasha replied, keeping her voice down low. "What do you want? I'm working."

"You missed your check in," Maria said. Natasha paused. She knew she'd missed her check in. Not calling Maria hadn't been an accidental slip—it'd been a completely on purpose decision she'd made.

"I know," she said calmly.

"What the hell, Natasha?" Maria snapped, instantly angry. "You know you're not supposed to—"

"Look, I'm working, and I can't right now. I'll have to update you when I can." Natasha shot the door a worried glance, paranoid that Francesca or any of the Tribianis' guards might be outside listening.

"Natasha, I have orders from Fury to pull you off this mission the first check in you miss, and you missed one," Maria said. Natasha felt the breath leave her body, and she quickly shook her head, even though she knew Maria couldn't see her.

"Don't pull me off this," she said quickly. "Please don't. I can't talk right this second, but I promise you I'll call you when I can."

"When will that be? I swear to God, Agent Romanoff, if you miss this next one, I _will _have to assign you back here to the Triskelion, and Fury will have to discipline you himself," Maria said, no longer sounding angry but exhausted.

"I…I don't know. He's not doing well, Maria. He's not doing well at all," Natasha replied. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence on the other end.

"What happened?"

"I can't tell you now, but believe me when I say that I think he went through a lot more than we realize. He's back at the apartment, and I'm at Francesca's. I'm probably going to stay the night here," Natasha said. Maria was quiet, and Natasha didn't know if that meant her handler was thinking or if she were writing down what Natasha had just told her, but in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. "I'll call you whenever I can."

"I'm trusting you to actually do that, Natasha. I covered for you earlier, but I can't do that again. You know we're on your side, right? We're trying to get Clint the help he needs."

Natasha kept her eyes closed, and she leaned against the wall of the bathroom, feeling the cool tiles through the thin fabric of her blouse. She didn't know how to respond to Maria's statement—yes, SHIELD technically did want to help. That was why they were SHIELD. However, asking her to tell them how Clint was doing without his knowledge wasn't something Natasha particularly felt comfortable with, something that really made a statement since there was very little she felt uncomfortable doing.

"I do," she said finally. "I know that."

"Good."

"But sending him on this assignment was the worst possible thing Fury could have done. I don't care if he thought that it would be better for him to clear his mind or to focus on something else. He's a fucking mess, and I'm not entirely sure that he would be this fucked up if he were back in DC getting the _right _help he needs," Natasha spat. "I've got to go."

"Romano—"

Natasha hung up before she made the decision not to. Breathing deeply, she stayed with her back against the wall for a few more seconds, opening her eyes and forcing herself to come back into the real world. That phone conversation hadn't even felt like her, she thought silently to herself as she studied the designs on the bathroom ceiling. She rarely got angry with her handlers, snapping at them for no apparent reason. Suddenly, she felt a deep, painful swell in her chest as she thought about Coulson.

Coulson had been the best damn handler. He'd been patient and understanding. He'd bent the rules for her and Clint when they'd needed them to, and he'd covered up for them when he'd had to. That being said, he'd also threatened them and sworn at them more times than she could count, but knowing Coulson and knowing both herself and Clint, she could admit that she and Clint had probably deserved it.

She found tears welling up in her eyes, and she quickly lifted her hand to wipe them away. Now wasn't the time to start crying over the memory of her dead handler. She kept trying to tell herself that, but the more she repeated those words to herself, the stronger the urge to cry became. If she were being honest with herself, which she usually was, she'd been pushing her own feelings on hold since New York. Between her problems and Clint's problems, she felt as though his were far more serious than hers and deserved far more time and attention. So for the past month, she'd kept her emotions bottled down.

But now wasn't the time to unbottle them, she told herself. So she pulled herself together with one last breath, she turned off the faucet, and she unlocked the door, walking out into the hallway. From her distance, she could hear people talking out in the living room that she'd left earlier when she'd gotten the call from Maria. Quietly, she began to walk down the narrow passageway to get a better listen.

"—**talk to him. It'd be beneficial to have him on our side. You said he's a good businessman.**"

_So they're talking in Italian, _Natasha realized, smiling quietly. It was definitely a good thing on her part that so far, everyone here thought that she couldn't speak Italian. Little did they know that she was fluent in Italian and spoke it so beautifully that she'd once convinced the Italian ambassador that she was born and bred in Italian.

"**I know I said that, but don't you think it's early to invite him in on the project? He's only been working here for three weeks."**

"**It's earlier than we've done for everyone else, but he's **_**good**_**, Anthony. You said it yourself. He'll be great for the company and for the plan."**

Natasha stopped breathing. All this time she and Clint had thought that Anthony was the one leading all the behind the scenes action behind Tribiani Development, but from what she was able to piece together in these few seconds, it was Francesca. She clenched her hands tightly together and forced herself to start taking in oxygen again.

"**What about Faith? You're becoming close with her, aren't you? Are you going to tell her what her husband will be getting into if he says yes?" **Anthony asked his wife. There was a pause. A long pause that made Natasha go completely still for fear of even blinking and making some kind of sound to distract them.

"**I will tell her at some point. I just told her the story of how we met, but I don't think she knows anything else. There's no way she could know."**

"**And you're sure she will be able to handle this news?"**

"**If I tell it to her the way I told it to everyone else, then I think she will understand. It's a way to help people," **Francesca said. **"Just remember to stress that to Jason."**

"**I wi—"**

Natasha stepped out from around the corner, interrupting the conversation to make it look natural. As if nothing had happened at all, Francesca looked over at her with a bright smile. "There you are. Is everything ok? Did you have a good talk with your aunt?"

"Yes, I did." Natasha nodded happily, smiling through the shock of everything. "She was worried about me since she hasn't heard from me, but I've just been forgetting to call her."

"Hello, Faith." Anthony greeted her with a warm smile, crossing over towards her to kiss her once on each cheek. "What a pleasant surprise to come home and have Francesca tell me that you came for a visit. Where's Jason?"

"He's at home," Natasha replied in a casual voice. "We went out and had date night, and he decided to go to bed early."

"Faith and I had some things to discuss about the fundraiser next weekend. Just last minute details," Francesca interjected. Natasha wondered if Francesca were trying to make it look like she was covering for Natasha's benefit or if she really was covering the fact that Jason and Faith had had a fight. Whatever the reason, however, Anthony didn't appear suspicious; instead, he just smiled and nodded.

"That actually works out well because I was planning on going to Tony's to meet everyone else for some last minute things, too," he said. "I just came home to quickly change out of this."

"Everything worked out beautifully," Natasha said, beaming brightly until her face felt as though it were going to fall off. She knew she was going to eat her words later.

* * *

><p>Two hours and seven beers later, Clint was drunk and sitting on the balcony with Palmer, who was on sixth beer and almost as drunk as Clint. "Dude, we haven't done this in so long. So long."<p>

"Right?" Clint slurred. He looked up at the sky and squinted his eyes at the stars. "Fuck the stars."

"Fuck 'em," Palmer agreed. Clint glanced at his former partner and saw Palmer knock the bottle back before guzzling a few more swallows. Natasha drank her beer that way. She didn't drink beer very often, but when she did, she did it quick, preferring to dive in headfirst so that it would be over quicker.

Natasha. She'd been in the back of his mind since the time Palmer had suggested some beers, but now she was back to the very front of his brain, reminding him that he could never really and truly forget her. Unless he was being mind-controlled by Loki. He could definitely forget about her then.

"What?" Palmer asked, squinting his entire face together in confusion. Clint realized he must have said something out loud, but he waved his hand to dismiss it instead of address it.

"Dumb shit," he mumbled. "This was a good idea."

"Yeah, it was," Palmer agreed. He looked over at Clint's face and saw the tightness there, the unyielding, unhappy emotions that Clint was trying to keep buried down but was failing at doing in his drunken state. "Barton, you all right?"

"I may have lost her, man," Clint said suddenly. The 4% of him that was sober started screaming at him to stop, but he found that the 96% of him that was under the influence of alcohol didn't want him to. "I fucked up bad."

"I don't think you did," Palmer argued, looking very upset by the fact that Clint blamed himself for something he didn't even know the reasons behind yet.

"I did," Clint insisted. "I was going to kill her, and I told her tonight, and she left. I should have—I should've pretended to be dead when he was walking around. Then he wouldn't have fucked me up."

"Who?" Palmer asked, but Clint didn't stop talking.

"Should've gotten the hell out of there. Fought harder. Done everything different. I didn't do enough, and I nearly—Jesus, Palmer, I nearly killed her." Clint leaned his forehead against the railing of the balcony. "I was going to _kill _her."

"But you didn't." Palmers snapped his fingers and grinned as if he'd come up with the greatest solution in the world. "You didn't, and that's good."

"But I love her," Clint said out loud. He looked down at the city around him, and he thought about her being out somewhere in it while he was here. They were two separate people in two separate places, and sometimes he could live with that. He really could. But tonight he wanted nothing more than to have her near so he could tell her everything if it meant she'd be ok.

"I know you do," Palmer murmured.

"I love her," Clint repeated. "'Member the Voloshin mission?"

"Yeah." Palmer swayed a little bit in his spot on the floor, but he managed to focus his eyes on Clint.

"That's how I was going to kill her. The way those guys were. I saw them torture her, and I guess I never forgot it in the back of my—my mind." Clint's tongue felt numb in his mouth, the way his heart felt in his chest. "But I love her. I really fucking in love with her."

"I know you're in love with her," Palmer repeated. "And she's in love with you."

Clint looked over at Palmer and narrowed his eyes to focus them. Then he spoke the most honest words he'd uttered since New York. "That's the problem."

"What?" Palmer asked, easily getting lost in the conversation as he became more intoxicated. Clint thought about repeating himself, but he decided against it. He didn't exactly want to admit that the whole being in love thing was a problem because the being in love part might be what someday killed her.


	12. Flood

**Shoutouts to beverlie4055, CreativeDreamer98, Agent Keene, the-vintageclassic, EpicPackage, AmeliaSkellig, buh-dum-tss, yornma, Rosay Chere Khann, Jo, clintashainthetardis, Lanaa Taurof, Names, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**I'd like to get this story wrapped up by Chapter 15, so it looks like we're coming to the end of this one! I was originally going to do a third part that deals with Clint and Natasha after the fall of SHIELD (I promise it wouldn't be as painful as this and _Girl, Compromised _have been), but I'm not sure if I'm going to. Let me know if that's something you're interested in one way or the other.**

**I swear the pain will be over soon, guys. This chapter is pretty fucking emotional, but hey, there's smut in it, so I hope that makes up for something? Also, the mission thickens, and things start to go South.**

**I published a Fitzsimmons fic on AO3 called _Breathing Space_, and it deals with Simmons telling Fitz she's leaving, so if you want to read it, feel free to check out!**

**For extra emotions, I know it's kind of cheesy, but "Safe & Sound" - Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars. (MaddieFayeth96, I love the song you rec'd, and I'm saving it for another chapter because it's really fantastic. You have awesome taste in music!) Mad shoutout to loversandmadmen on AO3 for helping me with parts of this chapter!**

**As always, keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. I promise the pain will be over and done with before you know it!**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 12<p>

Natasha woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing. For half a second, she forgot where she was, but as she remembered the night before—she and Francesca talking late into the night while buzzed on wine—it hit her that was still at Francesca's. She blinked her eyes hard and propped herself up on her elbow before reaching out to the nightstand—Jesus, she didn't even remember making her way to the guest bedroom last night—to grab her phone. As she squinted her green eyes at the way too bright screen, she saw the name JASON lighting up across the center of the shiny glass.

Her heart thudded loudly, and she considered not answering it; however, she knew that Clint wouldn't call her unless something important was going on, so she numbly put her thumb to the screen and slid it across to answer. "Hello?"

"Hey, you need to get out of there." Clint's voice was alarmed and full of quick words. "Now."

"What?" In a second, Natasha was seated, allowing the blankets to fall away from her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Palmer hacked into Ariana's husband's email, and he's working with the fucking enemy to take Tribiani Developing down. He has a hit ordered on Anthony, and that hit's supposed to be coming in the next 10 minutes. Natasha, you need to get out of there," Clint ordered. Natasha didn't need any extra encouragement to start grabbing her jeans and heels off the floor, holding the phone between her shoulder and her cheek as she got dressed.

"I'll get Francesca and get her out of here. I'll work on a cover in a sec," she said into the phone. Catching sight of her purse on the floor by the nightstand, she grabbed it and slipped it over her shoulder.

"Natasha, Francesca's not on the premises," Clint said, his voice growing increasingly urgent. "The security cameras show that she left half an hour ago."

"_What_?" Natasha snapped. She ran out into the hall to look around. "Is there anyone else here?"

"No. There's something really wrong happening, and you _need to get out of there_," Clint stressed. "Everyone cleared out of the penthouse. Last person to leave was a maid seven minutes ago."

"Fuck," Natasha hissed. "I got to call you back."

"Natasha, what the—no—you need to get out," Clint snapped. In that moment, it felt as if nothing were off with them; Clint was frustrated with her because she wasn't out as fast as she should have been, and she was improvising her plan on the spot.

"I can take him out," she snapped back. "All I have to do is—"

"No. Don't take him out because you'll blow your damn cover. Just get the hell out of dodge." Clint wasn't fucking around, and well, he had a point. If she went ahead and knocked out the guy who was coming to put a hit on Anthony, she would blow everything she and Clint had worked to establish. But if she got him at a disadvantage, she could possibly get information from him.

"Clint, I can—"

"Natasha, I am right outside Francesca's building, and if you're not outside in the next minute, I swear to God—"

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed. "You're supposed to be back at the apartment!"

"I've always got your back, Natasha. Now can you please get the—"

Suddenly, the sound of a lock being picked at the front door grabbed Natasha's attention, and she darted down the hall and into a darker, more covered room.

"Clint, shut up," she ordered seriously, her voice going quiet as the door to the penthouse opened up and swung open. She stayed completely still, pressing her back to the wall.

"Natasha, is everything—"

"Hawkeye, _shut up_!" she growled. The use of his codename got him quiet the way she knew it would. Whenever they worked missions, they weren't Natasha and Clint; they were Hawkeye and Black Widow, taking away any possible personal identity that could compromise the other or themselves while working the mission. She kept the phone up to her ear, but she listened for any movement out in the hall.

Whoever Sebastian Ercolano had hired to take out Anthony was good, Natasha realized. There was absolutely no sound coming from out in the main area. Calmly, she steadied her breathing and reached with her free hand into her purse to wrap her hand around her ever-present Glock. Out in the hallway, she saw a shadow start to come across the floor, and she pressed herself into the wall even harder. If the guy looked into the room, he wouldn't be able to see her from where she stood, but she was fucked if he walked all the way in.

She heard the hitman pause, silently opening the door across the hall to check inside. If she listened closely enough, she could hear his footsteps as he walked into the room. _Ok_, she thought to herself_, looks like there's no way out of this one. He's going to walk in, and you're going to be made._

The footsteps came out into the hall and stopped in front of the door to the room she was hiding in. Of course the hitman would notice that this door was open when all others were shut. Natasha silently cursed herself inside her head for being careless, but she didn't linger too long on it—if anything, it was just an annoying discrepancy, but it wouldn't be the end of her life. The footsteps started up again, and she held the Glock firm in her hand, lowering the phone from her face and tucking it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She waited as one shoe and then the other entered the room. Then she saw the figure's body. Thankfully, he looked the other way, giving her the advantage she needed, and she struck. Natasha leapt forward and swung her body to the side so that she hit the side of his arm with the heel of her foot. The man let out a sharp cry of pain and stumbled, falling back against the wall as he took the blow. From what Natasha could see, he didn't have a gun in his hands, but that didn't mean he didn't have one close and easy to reach.

He started forward, lunging towards her, and she ducked. As his body moved forward, she moved beneath his arm and grabbed his waist as she used the momentum to slam his head into the wall. He let out another groan and slammed his elbow into the small of her back. Natasha gritted her teeth tight together and used the butt of her Glock to smash it into the side of his kneecap. However, as he started to go down, he took her down with him, managing to flip himself so that he was on top of her, and she was pinned.

Natasha barely saw the gun in his hand, but she saw it right as it came hurtling towards her cheekbone. She heard the smack before she actually felt the pain of it; hell, she felt the pain of her head snapping to the side before she felt the blow of the pistol whip. She started to squirm to find a weak spot for her to exploit when out of nowhere, a shot rang out, and the man slumped forward, falling onto her.

She let out a surprised cry and began flailing beneath him to find a way out. It was then that she looked past his shoulder and saw Clint standing there, his gun raised and his blue eyes wide. In that moment, Natasha was reminded of the very first time she'd seen him. She'd been trapped beneath a mark, and he'd been in the doorway, and yet, here they were again.

"Natasha," he said, his voice expressing nothing as to how he was feeling. His voice saying her name ripped her out of her state of remembrance, and she used her unexplained frustration towards him to shove the now limp and bleeding man off of her.

"What are—Jesus—what the hell?" she asked. A twinge of hurt and then irritation passed over his face, and he moved his jaw to the side as he shoved his gun back into his pocket.

"You're welcome," he snapped. "Come on. We need to get out. We've most definitely blown our cover."

Natasha didn't say anything in response; she just snatched up the phone that had fallen out of her pocket, her Glock, and her purse from the floor, and she followed quickly behind him. "What are we going to do?"

"Go back to the apartment and lock it down," Clint replied without looking at her. He started for the stairs at a quick run. Once he realized that Natasha wasn't directly beside him, he glanced back at her to find her making a face as she started down the stairs. "Natasha, we've got to _move_."

"I'm trying, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm in four inch heels," she shot back. Clint shut his mouth and kept running. Eventually, the two spies got to the bottom of the stairs and began moving quickly through the crowds of Italy.

"You've got blood on you," Clint said, his voice low.

"No shit," she retorted sharply. If Clint were bothered by her brash responses, he didn't show it. Instead, he slipped off the suit jacket he was wearing and passed it to her without saying a word. Natasha took the jacket from him, but her throat tightened up. She'd left him, and yet he was _still _taking care of her. Ultimately, Natasha knew that she had to talk to him about what had happened. There was no way that either of them could just let that talk from last night go, and unfortunately, she would have to face these terrifying feelings inside her that she would love to leave buried. But one thing at a time first, she reminded herself.

Quickly, she and Clint navigated the streets of Venice as best they could until they were back to the apartment. The walk should have taken 20 minutes, but they managed to make it back in 15. As soon as Natasha had crossed the threshold of the apartment, Clint began the lockdown process. She stood and watched him turn on the rest of the alarms and sensors, securing the apartment as best they could.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We call Hill and see what our orders are," Clint replied with his back to her.

"We blew our cover. It's not like we can just stay here," she answered. He glanced back at her and shrugged.

"We have nowhere to go, Natasha. Yes, we can always pick up and go, but we need to wait for orders," he said back, his voice starting to grow tense.

"And wait for Sebastian Ercolano to send his men after us? Excuse me, but I didn't plan on that happening today," Natasha snapped. She folded her arms over her chest and waited for Clint to turn around.

"Well, you know what, Natasha? Maybe you should've gotten the hell out of there when I'd told you to," Clint retorted. He turned to face her, his blue eyes flaring angrily. "But no. Of course not. Because you know best, don't you?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have busted through the door guns blazing because then that guy might still be alive!" Natasha shouted. She knew she was starting to lose a grip on her emotions, but she couldn't help it. After everything that had happened, she found that it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep a lid on all of them when they were boiling hot, bubbling around deep inside her chest.

"I wouldn't have had to save your ass if you'd just _gotten the hell out_!" Clint shouted back. Natasha stared furiously at him, noticing his choice of words. They never referred to having each other's backs as "saving" each other. The phrase felt wrong and weird, like they owed each other, a notion that Clint had squashed out years ago. But Natasha noticed that he used it just then, and she felt as though he'd thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

"Fuck you, Barton," she spat. "Fuck you!"

She turned over her shoulder and stalked down the hall, feeling Clint's eyes on the back of her head. However, it didn't take long for him to follow directly behind her. "Oh, yeah, run away again. That's cute, Natasha."

"Now you're just being mean, Clint," she said. "You're being mean and—and cruel."

"I'm being honest!" Clint was still moving after her and following her to their bedroom. At this point, all Natasha wanted was to be alone in the solace of their bedroom. And a shower. God, she could really use a shower. "You can't run away from everything that makes you unhappy!"

"You know what? Tell me what to do then. Tell me how I'm supposed to handle this!" She wheeled around and got up in his face, not feeling intimidated at all by his height and width compared to her small frame. "What's your solution since you're apparently so goddamn smart with all the answers?" She watched Clint's eyes lose a little bit of their fire as he tried to come up with an answer. Still waiting, she lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side. "That's what I thought."

She finished crossing into the bedroom, Clint still hot on her heels, when he finally spoke. "Are we ever going to talk about what's going on with us, or are we just going to keep yelling?"

"I can't, Clint," she responded. She stood at the bottom of their bed, her back to him, and she didn't move.

"You can. You just won't." Clint's voice was filled with a bitterness that didn't sound natural; out of everything that Clint was and had the potential to be, bitter was not one of them. That was _her _job. Between the two of them, she was the one who was supposed to point out that it was going to rain, and Clint was the one who was supposed to point out that someday, the rain would stop, and the sun would come.

"Please, stop," she said. She sounded weary and done, but that was exactly what she was. All she wanted was a damn shower and a bed to fall into, but Clint wouldn't stop pushing her.

"Natasha, I'm trying to _talk to you_. I don't know—I'm trying to—I'm trying to—" Clint stopped talking as he realized that he just sounded helpless and unsure of everything he was saying. "If I could turn back time, I would in a heartbeat. You know I would."

"I _know _that," Natasha stressed, still refusing to look at him. "But Clint, I'm freaking out here."

He was quiet for a few seconds. Finally, she risked a glance over her shoulder at him and found him looking down at the floor, his head hanging so low that she couldn't even see his face. "So am I." He ran a hand over his face and heaved a deep sigh. "Can we just get through this mission without killing each other? Act like everything's all good until we get orders and figure out what we're doing next?"

Natasha hesitated, thinking over what he was suggesting. Whenever they had arguments on missions, that was generally what they did—pretended everything was ok until they could hash it out as Natasha and Clint without fear of being caught as someone other than their covers. However, this thing that was happening with them seemed to be too big to ignore, too large and encompassing to try to sweep under the rug. But goddammit, if Natasha wasn't going to try it. "Ok. I can…pretend to be normal."

"Ok," Clint agreed with a nod. "So let's—"

"Hey." Palmer's slightly panicked voice grabbed their attention as he knocked quickly on the wood of the doorway. He stood there with his laptop in his hand and a deep frown on his face. "Someone want to explain to me what this is?"

He turned the laptop around to show them the words LOCKDOWN INITIATED across the screen.

"Oh, we're on lockdown," Natasha replied. He turned his dark eyes to her and stared at her as if she hadn't been gone at all.

"Welcome back, Agent Romanoff," he said blithely. "I can see that we're on lockdown, but how the hell did we get like that?" He redirected his gaze to Clint. "Did something go wrong? What happened?"

"I jumped the gun too early," Clint said before Natasha could reply. "Ran in after the hitman when I shouldn't have. Wound up killing him."

"What?!" Palmer exclaimed. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, no. So our cover's blown."

"Yep," Natasha confirmed. "We're just waiting on orders. Speaking of…" She whipped out her phone and called Maria.

"Hill." Her new handler's voice was firm but familiar, and Natasha found herself feeling strangely comforted by it.

"We've been made," Natasha said. There was no point in beating around the bush. She had to get directly to the point, whether that meant getting a lecture from Hill on being careless and irresponsible. She closed her eyes, feeling her heart tighten inside her chest as she imagined what Coulson would be saying to her just then.

"Lockdown sequence initiated?" Maria asked.

"Already been taken care of," Natasha replied. "What are our orders?"

"How bad is the situation?" Maria countered.

"One dead hitman. Was going to take out Anthony Tribiani. Entire apartment was vacated except for me. I didn't get out fast enough, and Agent Barton came in as my back up," she said.

"Is there any way the dead hitman can be traced back to you?" The stress and frustration were evident in Maria's voice, and Natasha felt just a twinge of guilt of having been the cause of it, but she didn't allow herself to get too wrapped up into it.

She glanced over at Palmer. "Any way the hit can be traced back to us?"

"Funny enough, your friend Ercolano was on top of that because right before the hitman went in, all the video feeds in the building received some weird interference, meaning that all cameras throughout the entire building went down," Palmer said, squinting his eyes at the screen on his laptop as he typed with one hand, holding the laptop up with the other. "And from what I can tell, Ercolano has a hacker who's on his shit and took care of that for him."

"You catch that?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah, did," Maria answered. "So there's really no way to _prove _that either of you was there, but circumstantially, it's going to look sketchy as hell."

"So what do we do? What are our orders?" Natasha asked. "It's only a matter of time before Francesca goes back, sees I'm not there, sees a dead man in her house, and begins to start wondering what happened." Her eyes went wide as she remembered the conversation from last night that she'd overheard. "Oh, shit. Wait, wait, wait. Last night I overheard her and Anthony talking about—about something. She was saying that Anthony should bring up an idea of some kind to Clint because Clint's a good businessman. Anthony didn't really want to, thought it was too risky, but she kind of overrode that. Hill, Francesca's behind Tribiani Developing. I don't think it's Anthony heading it at all. He's just being the face for it."

"Well, that raises the stakes in a different way," Maria said. "Ok. So it looks like we were gunning after the wrong person all this time. Any idea what she was going to have Anthony offer to Clint?"

"Some kind of business deal. We know Tribiani Developing does sketchy business for sketchy people. There's got to be a reason behind it, especially since Francesca's taking the reins on this, and she's a chick from po-dunk country Italy," Natasha replied in a wry voice. She looked over at Palmer and Clint and saw the both of them intently watching her with shocked expressions at this latest development. "So, Hill, please. What are our orders? If we disappear now, it'll be too suspicious, but I don't think we can stay here longer than 72 hours before people start catching on."

"We'll have an extraction team there in 11 hours. Remain on lockdown, and keep your guard up. I'll alert you of any further changes," Maria said, immediately jumping into action. "Get Palmer looking up Francesca to find motive, and I'll see what I can do from my end here. Call me if you get anything. I'm also assuming that now isn't the time we're going to do your skipped check in because Barton's close by."

"Correct," Natasha said with a professional nod. "I'll call you back if we find anything."

"Alright."

Natasha hung up and tossed her cell phone on the bed. "Extraction team is coming for us in 11 hours. Act normal, and Palmer, get digging into Francesca's history for a clue as to why she might be running this damn show."

"On it," Palmer said. And just like that, he was gone, and it was Clint and Natasha alone again. All of a sudden, Natasha felt the energy drain from her body, and she sank down to the edge of the bed so she didn't collapse on the floor. She'd forgotten how physically draining being emotionally drained was until just then, and she had to say that she didn't like it at all.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clint approach the bed and sit down beside her, though she noticed that he was careful to put distance between the two of them so as not to upset her further. They were supposed to act normal until the mission was over, but she didn't know if she could do that, even if she'd already agreed to it. She didn't know how the hell she was supposed to act like nothing was bothering her when she couldn't stop imagining Clint killing her. Clint, the person who had changed her life around. Clint, the guy with the bow and arrow and hands so gentle she couldn't even begin to describe them as rough.

Despite herself, she felt tears start to sting in her eyes, and she looked away from him, ducking her head so that her short red hair fell in front of her face. The bed shifted slightly beneath her, and then she felt Clint's hand, light as feather, on her back. He was being so _nice _to her despite the fact that he was upset with her, too, and that was probably what killed her and infuriated her more than anything.

She gave in to what her heart wanted, and she turned her head back towards him, only to regret it. Clint was looking at her with such unbridled emotion that she wanted to immediately look away again. He looked angry and sad and worried and scared all mixed up together, and she just wanted to wipe away those expressions so that he didn't feel any of those bad things.

_Act normal_, she thought to herself. _Act normal._

Suddenly, she reached out and kissed him. Her hand was on the side of his face, and her mouth was on his, and this was probably really stupid, but she kissed him. For a second, Clint was stiff beneath her touch, and she started to pull away, taking it as a sign that he didn't want to, but then he relaxed and started kissing her back. The kiss wasn't sweet and gentle, nor was it romantic. It was angry. It was full of frustration and irritation and pain, but Natasha couldn't give less of a fuck because she wanted him.

She deepened the kiss and began scrambling at the buttons of his shirt right as he started messing with her jeans. There was something a little off about the way they handled each other, almost too carelessly and freely without regard for anything else, but again, Natasha couldn't bring herself to care. Instead, she shoved Clint's pants down, and she wasted not time in wrapping her hand around him and pumping hard.

If anything, this spurred Clint on. Without waiting another second, he yanked at the waistband of her jeans, and Natasha pulled away just long enough to lift her hips up and tug them down before kicking them off onto the ground. She was about to start removing her underwear, but Clint had those off before she could even begin. Next thing she knew, she was flat on her back with Clint pressing down on top of her and the tip of his length pressing into her. Furiously, she arched her hips to egg him on, not wanting to wait much longer. She needed to fuck and get whatever the hell this was out of her system so she could take a goddamn shower and go about the rest of her day like it was a normal day. She started to grind her hips in an achingly slow pattern to get Clint going, and it had the desired effect because he shoved right into her without abandon.

She kissed him as hard and as brutally as she could, wrapping her legs tight around his hips as he drove into her. They were generally both pretty quiet during sex, but she found that she was making small noises she couldn't control with each thrust he made between her legs. The sex was hard and fast, but by God, it was exactly what she needed, and she needed to let him know. Spurred on by his deep, curling thrusts inside her, she ran her hands up his toned, muscled arms until she was running her fingers through his hair. Tightening her grip, she pulled hard and listened to Clint's tense grunt of pain. He reached back with one hand and grabbed both of her wrists in one, bringing them back to the bed where he promptly pinned her in place, all while continuing to push hard and deep.

Natasha knew he was close, could sense it in the way his hips began to lose their even strokes and go slack. She could even see it in his face where he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Even though she didn't have much room to move her upper body with his hands still locking her wrists down, she had enough space to close the distance between their mouths and kiss him. She made the kiss filthy and dirty, shoving her tongue into his mouth and slowing the movements of her lips right as she moved her hips beneath him to grind against him in time with his thrusts.

And just like that, he was coming. His entire body jerked above her, and he pressed his hips as far forward as he could in order to be as deep inside her as possible. A small, shuddering groan passed from between his lips, and Natasha stayed still as she felt that familiar sensation of thick, wet warmth spread between her legs. Instead of letting him ride out his orgasm for all it was worth, she started to squirm beneath him to let him know she wanted him out and off. Thankfully, she didn't have to wait too long—he was off of her in a second, breathing hard and looking questionably at her as she got up and stalked off to the bathroom.

It wasn't until after she had locked the door, started the shower, and stepped underneath the hot spray that she put her hand between her legs and finished what he hadn't been able to.

* * *

><p>When Natasha opened the door that connected the bathroom to the bedroom, she was surprised to find Clint still in the bedroom. He had a book open in his hands, and he had changed into a new set of clothes. But that wasn't what surprised her most of all. The thing that got her was the mug of steaming tea on her nightstand. He always got her tea whenever he went to the kitchen, and she guessed that that was what he must have done while she'd been in the shower taking care of herself.<p>

Guilt flooded her chest, and she almost turned and retreated back into the bathroom out of shame, but she forced herself to keep walking until she was at the edge of her side of the bed. She sat down and leaned against the headboard to prop herself upright, curling her legs up underneath her protectively. Clint didn't look at her or say anything, and she was ok with that. She really was, she kept telling herself. She'd basically slapped him in the face by not allowing him to let her come and then taking care of it on her own in the shower—because honestly, that's what she'd done, but at least she could admit it to herself—so she didn't expect him to acknowledge her. But as she reached for the hot tea and thought about everything that had just happened to them that day, she felt those same damn tears starting to well back up in her eyes again.

She took the mug in her hands and held it cupped safe between her palms, staring right down into the dark amber liquid as she tried to get a hold of herself. But the thing was, the harder she tried, the hotter the tears burned, and before she knew it, her shoulders were silently shaking with light sobs she'd been holding back for a month. Suddenly, Clint was beside her. She didn't need him to touch her or say anything to know it—she just knew. He was beside her, and then he was brushing her hair away from her face.

"Natasha…Natasha…" His whisper trailed off, and she let him take the mug from her to set it back on the nightstand. She wished she could stop crying, but everything was starting to bubble over the top, and she just couldn't fucking help it. Clint put one hand on the open space right below her shoulder, and she could no longer stay away from him. She curled into him and let him slide both arms around her to pull her in close to him. "Oh, Natasha. Natasha, it's ok. I promise. It's ok, Tasha. I love you. I love you so much. It's ok."

And so Natasha cried. She cried for the fear she'd felt on the helicarrier. She cried for her crimes and all the red in her ledger. She cried for the way things used to be five months ago. She cried for the terror at the thought of Clint killing her. She cried for the worry she'd kept buried deep down inside her. She cried for Coulson. She even cried for herself. But most of all, she cried for Clint.


	13. Stay

**Shoutouts to Black Widow and Hawkeye OTP, EpicPackage, the-vintageclassic, JacquelineKennedy, yornma, Jo, Black Betty, TheNaggingCube, patty cake rocks, Agent Keene, beverlie4055, Guest, AmeliaSkellig, clintashainthetardis, Rosay Chere Khann, Ava, kamarooka, CreativeDreamer98, Guest, sailorraven34, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!**

**So everyone who had an opinion on whether or not to do a part III said yes, and actually, something happened on Tumblr that got me _really_ wanting to write a part III (if you follow me on Tumblr, you know exactly what I'm talking about), so at this point in time, I'm saying yes, I'll do a part III that deal with what happens after _Captain America: The Winter Soldier. _Again, I promise that that one won't be anywhere near as painful as _Girl, Compromised _or even this =) Speaking of, you might want tissues for this chapter. I don't know if y'all are criers, but just as a warning!  
><strong>

**Heads up: next chapter will most likely be the last one of this story!**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Heart Like Yours" - Willamette Stone.**

**As always, keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. Your reviews make my day amazing!**

**Enjoy! =)**

**(P.S. Please don't kill me.)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 13<p>

Natasha wept until she had drained herself of every bit of liquid in her body. When she was done crying, she stayed in Clint's arms, curled up tight into a tiny ball as he continued to hold her. She didn't remember him pulling her onto his lap, but as her sobs subsided into gasps and then sniffs before stopping altogether, she realized that that was exactly where she was. His body was warm and solid around, a protective wall from everything outside that could possibly hurt her. He was rubbing her back in careful circles without saying because to him, it wasn't his place to speak until she was ready. So Natasha pulled herself together, and she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

"Don't apologize," he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple. "Don't. You're human, Nat."

"I know." She swallowed and pulled away to look at him with large, swollen eyes. "That's what I hate."

"We're not all gods from outer space." Clint pushed a smile onto his face and watched the muscles at the edges of her mouth relax at the sight of his smile. "We also don't Super Soldier Serums and metal suits and green guys waiting to explode out from underneath our skin. We…you and I are very, _very _human."

"I…" She stopped and wiped her face with her hands. "I feel stupid. I'm sorr—"

"Don't. Don't apologize, Tasha." He reached up and took her hand away from her face. She pressed her lips together hard and looked at him. She would never understand him—God, she'd been in love with him for seven years, and she knew him better than she felt she knew herself, but she would never be able to understand how he could be at the lowest point in his life but still put his pain aside to make hers a priority.

"I hate this," she breathed. "I hate feeling so—so far away from you and like I can't help you. I want to help you, and I can't, and I don't like that." She paused and inhaled deeply to compose herself. "I like answers. I like solutions. I don't like being out of control and feeling helpless. But this…"

"You said it yourself. We weren't trained for this. Monsters and magic. You and I were trained for _this_. Infiltration. Espionage. Extraction teams," Clint said, his voice even and matter of fact.

"Bow and arrows and guns," she added. "We were trained for things we could see and touch and believe in, but…Clint, we were just shown that there's _more_ we can see and touch when everyone's told us that those things were impossible. How am I…how are you…how is _anyone _supposed to deal with it? How am I supposed to help you find the solution when I can't even identify the problem?"

"That's where you're torturing yourself." Clint lifted a hand and tucked a piece of red hair back behind her ear. "No one can figure out what's going on. We're not supposed to know the answers. We've just got to…roll with it, I guess."

Natasha sighed and covered her face with her hand. "Since when have you gotten to be so zen?"

"Since I got drunk last night and thought about nothing but you," Clint answered honestly. He was looking at her with that face he always reserved just for her, a look that Natasha couldn't even describe. He looked at her as if she held the world in her hands and had the power to drop it at any second. "I don't have the answers. I don't think I usually do, but Nat…I want to…Jesus, I don't know. I want to be ok. I want _you _to be ok. When you look at me, I don't want the first thing you think of to be the fact that I was going to kill you."

Natasha reached out and touched his face with just her fingertips, her lips trembling as her mouth spread into a watery smile. "Clint…you were going to kill me seven years ago. Fully intended to, and it wasn't until you broke my arm that you decided not to. And that was _you_. Not some brainwashed version of you. You were going to kill me, and I still don't look at you as a killer." She traced her fingers over his brow and down the side of his temple, watching his eyes go soft. "It'll take me some time to get over that bombshell you dropped on me last night. I needed some breathing space, and I got it, so I promise you that I'm not going to run away again. I'll always come through for you, Clint."

Clint leaned his forehead against her temple and closed his eyes, his hand still tracing lazy circles over her back. "I'll make it up to you."

"No," Natasha said gently. Leaning her head against the top of his, she let his fingers intertwine with hers. "We're just even. You saved me, and I saved you."

"Is this about that thing with debt?" Clint's voice became cautious, wary. Back when Natasha had first been brought in, she'd been focused on the fact that she owed him for saving her life. They hadn't discussed it in years because she'd finally let it go, but now she couldn't help it.

"Yes," she replied. "But that's over now. It's done. You got me away from the KGB, and I got you away from Loki. It's done forever. I promise."

He started to protest, to open his mouth and tell her how she shouldn't have to worry about owing him, not now, not ever. But the words out of his mouth surprised her more than anything. "Ok."

"Ok," she whispered back.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until five hours later when Natasha got a phone call from Francesca that she knew they were all fucked. She sat on the couch in the living room and glanced at the caller ID before sliding her thumb across the screen, exchanging looks with both Clint and Palmer, who were busy comparing evidence and possible theories.<p>

"Hello?" she answered.

"Faith, thank God, you're ok," Francesca sighed. "What happened to you this morning?"

"I left before anyone woke up. I didn't want to be a bother to anyone. Why? Is everything ok?" Natasha asked innocently. She looked at Palmer, knowing that he was tracing the call and recording it with his laptop.

"Something happened—I don't know what. But there's a dead body in the house. I just got home now, and I thought that something had—the police are here right now. They are trying to figure out what's going on," Francesca said. She sounded worried and upset, two natural reactions to finding a dead body in her home, but Natasha had a feeling that this wasn't the first time the Italian woman had ever dealt with death so close to her home before.

"Oh, my God. Is it Anthony? Do the police know who did it? Oh, my God, Francesca," Natasha breathed.

"It's not Anthony. He wound up leaving very early this morning. The police have no idea, but I was so worried thinking that something had happened. Oh, God. I'm just glad that you're ok. I never could have seen this coming," Francesca replied. "I just don't know what to do."

"Where are you now? Are you at your place?" Natasha asked. She waited for Francesca's answer when Palmer was suddenly up and over in front of her, shoving the laptop in front of her face. "Wait, hold on a second. I'm so sorry. Jason's on the other line, and I need to check in with him."

"Of course, of course," Francesca said.

Natasha pulled the phone away from her face, putting it on mute so that Francesca couldn't hear her, and she looked at Palmer. "What?"

"Romanoff, look," Palmer ordered. He pointed to a sentence. "Look. Read this."

Natasha's green eyes skimmed over the sentence, and her mouth dropped. "Oh, God. Ok. Well. Now we have motive."

"We're not supposed to focus on motive—we were supposed to get information," Clint said. Natasha glanced over at him and half-shrugged with a mild nod.

"True," she said. "But this can come in handy. I really do think it will." She paused and looked at the screen. "Also, we _are _getting information."

"What?" Palmer asked.

"According to the trace you have going on here with your computer, she's not at the penthouse," Natasha said. She frowned and studied the screen. "Guys, I'm pretty sure she's here."

"Shit!" Palmer hissed. He grabbed the computer from her as Natasha snatched her cell phone back up and put it to her ear.

"Hi, sorry, I'm back," she said a little breathlessly. "Jason called, and I got caught up with talking to him. Where was I?"

"I'm outside my apartment," Francesca replied. Natasha lifted her eyes over towards Palmer. They both knew the truth—Francesca was there at their building, and she was lying. That could only leave a few reasons as to why, and Natasha wasn't sure she wanted to face any of those reasons. "The police are still investigating inside."

"How long will they be there?" Natasha asked.

"Hey?" Palmer's voice suddenly distracted her, and she glared at him with huge eyes to shut up when he whipped his laptop screen back around so that she could see it. "Someone's trying to hack our security system."

"I don't know. Probably another two hours or so? I just got back," Francesca replied. She still sounded upset, and Natasha had to give it to the woman for being good, but she decided that enough was enough.

"Call off your dogs, Francesca," she said. There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then her friend spoke.

"Dogs?" she asked.

"Call them off," Natasha warned. "There's an extraction team coming for us at any second, and I think you figured something was up. Hence why you've got people trying to break into my apartment right now."

"I don't know who you are," Francesca said calmly. "But I know that you've got something to do with the dead man in my apartment. Faith. Whether that's your real name or not. What _is _real is the fact that you're not who you say you are. I didn't recognize you at first, but I had Anthony look more deeply into the Battle of New York to see if there were anything we needed to be afraid of. And who did we see there in the middle of those classified photographs? You and Jason."

"Smart," Natasha said. "Very smart to do that."

"I don't know what you want, but I don't like people messing around with my family," Francesca replied, her tone blithe. Natasha glanced over at Clint and nodded towards the door. Right away, he caught her hint and leapt out of his chair, grabbing the Glock out of the back of his waistband.

"I know about the adoption, Francesca," Natasha said. "That's right. We have our hackers, too. I know that you were given up for adoption by a wealthy family, and you were adopted by a lower income family. And interestingly enough, it wasn't a surprise when Tribiani Developing came to your town to mess with the land, and that's because your biological father put the bug in Anthony's ear to do it. Before you got to really meet him, though, he died, and his son Sebastian was made a partner. You knew this, and you married Anthony, and you got him involved in some sick battle when it was too late to back out. So what's this now? Your biological brother orders a hit on your husband?"

"You don't know anything about family," Francesca said, her voice heated but flippant. "I don't need a lecture from you about what family means."

"Hey, hey, hey." Palmer was suddenly in front of Natasha, shoving the laptop beneath her nose. "We need to get the fuck out of here."

"Call your people off, Francesca!" Natasha shouted into the phone. "I'm giving you three sec—"

The bullets came bursting in through the glass window of the living room. For a second, Natasha thought that she was imagining all of them, but deep down, she knew she wasn't. Grabbing Palmer by the back of the neck, she threw both herself and him down onto the ground.

"Clint!" she shouted.

"I'm all right! Palmer?" Clint shouted back from somewhere she couldn't see.

"I'm here!" Palmer called.

"Guns out, Palmer!"

"Fuck you, Barton!"

Natasha pulled her own Glock, and she gazed at Palmer with lifted eyebrows. "Really? We're caught in a hailstorm of bullets, and that's what you come out with?"

"It's bad luck if we don't," Palmer replied, shrugging. Natasha thought about replying back, but she didn't have the time. At this rate, bullets were coming in everywhere, and she had no idea what to do or how they were going to get out of this.

"Where are they coming from?" she shouted to Clint. She still couldn't see him, but she knew he was somewhere in the near vicinity. Rolling away from Palmer, who was typing something frantically into his laptop behind the safety of the couch, she leapt up onto her feet and fired two shots out the broken window. Bullets had come in from there, but she didn't know if they were coming from anywhere else. Clint, on the other hand, always knew that kind of thing.

"Just the window!" he called back to her. "I'm going to the roof."

"Clint—" Another shower of bullets cut her off before she could finish, but she caught sight of him as he ran towards the front door. He had his Glock tucked back in his waistband and his quiver thrown over one shoulder, his bow in hand.

"You got this?" he asked.

"Of course!" she yelled. Within seconds, he was gone. The gunshots slowed down, and Natasha lifted her head and her hand to fire out the window in the direction of the attack. "You good, Palmer?"

"Uh, yeah! I'm just hacking SHIELD to get their extraction team here a little faster!"

Natasha ducked back down and looked at Palmer with an incredulous look. "How the hell are you going to manage that one? The closest SHIELD base is in Rome, and that's a five hour flight."

Palmer winced as more bullets came soaring into the room, and he scooted down beneath the couch a little farther. "Fun fact: secret safe house in Croatia right across the border."

"Croatia's like, a two hour flight, Palmer. And what the hell do you mean that there's a secret base in Croatia?" Natasha snapped impatiently. Palmer surprised her by looking fairly calm throughout the rest of the shots that continued to empty into the apartment, only interrupted every now and then by Natasha's returning fire.

"It means exactly what you think it means," Palmer replied. "There's a secret SHIELD base. Not very big, but they have enough for things like this. And…I just ordered an extrac team for us."

Natasha squinted her eyes towards the window, studying any shape of movement happening outside. "We don't usually get extrac teams."

"Well, it's your lucky day because today we get one. And judging by Stark's new tech that he's got going on, the jet should be here in about an hour," Palmer shouted. An hour, Natasha thought to herself. An hour of trying to take care of this? If these guys didn't take her and Clint out now, it was only a matter of time before Francesca would only send more people in to kill them.

Francesca had been right. Natasha didn't understand a thing about family. She didn't know how to put her loyalty to more than one thing at a time—she couldn't possibly understand what it was like to have familial duty, and she could admit that about herself. But what she _did _understand was loyalty. Even though she might not have been able to dish out a lot of it, she definitely understood where her loyalties lay.

Outside the window, she heard the familiar whoosh of an arrow, and she smiled. She couldn't see if Clint had hit his target, but she trusted he had. He wouldn't have wasted an arrow unless he meant business. She heard another rush of air, and she stayed crouched down low. Sure enough, the gunfire began to slow, and she took her opportunity. "Hey, Palmer, can't you get in some serious shit for hacking into that Croatian base and sending out an extrac team since it's, I don't know, top secret?"

"I guess so," Palmer answered. Which meant yes. "But I'm not staying here and dying. I'd rather live and get fired because I thought to cover my own ass."

"Speaking of covering ass, looks like Barton's wiping them out quickly." Natasha dropped back down to the ground. "It won't be long before more guys get sent in, though."

"Think we can last out the hour?" Palmer asked. For the first time since the guns had started, he sounded nervous. As Natasha kept safely out of sight, she remembered how he'd once been so skittish around guns and gunfire, and now here he was sitting through all of this as if it annoyed him more than anything, only glancing up now and then if something sounded particularly concerning.

"Uh. Sure," she answered.

"That's a lie," Palmer said with a snort. Natasha listened to the guns stop outside, but she didn't move. Despite the fact that they weren't out of the woods yet, she smiled to herself. Leave it to Clint to save the day by going up top to the roof—that was where he did his best work, she knew. She waited quietly on the floor before craning her neck around the edge of the couch to get a better look at Palmer.

"You able to get the security system back up and running once Clint gets back in here?" she asked. Palmer didn't look up at her but kept furiously typing on his laptop as he gave her a quick nod.

"I should be able to," he said. Suddenly, he grinned and choked out a snort. "You know, this day sure has gotten pretty crazy pretty fast. I picked the wrong day to have a hangover."

"Oh, yeah, Clint told me he was drunk last night," Natasha mildly answered. Palmer nodded and kept typing.

"Bro time," he said.

"Oh, God, don't be weird," Natasha retorted. She heard footsteps in the hall, and she peeked her head around the corner. Clint was walking at a brisk pace back towards the door. He had a quickly forming bruise on his cheek, and he looked pissed more than anything else, but he was alive and in one piece. Natasha could live with that. She slowly eased out onto her feet and started to stand up when movement behind Clint's body caught her eye. "Clint, get down!"

A shot rang out, but before another one could follow, Clint turned and let loose an arrow. Natasha didn't get to see the arrow hit its mark; she felt the impact of the bullet hitting her torso before she felt the pain spreading far too slowly and far too quickly all at the same time. She looked down at the source of the pain and saw blood darkening the front of her shirt.

"Natasha? Natasha!"

She felt herself start to fall, but suddenly, someone was there beside her, and she was looking up at Palmer's face. "Oh, God. Oh, shit. Natasha, are—"

"Palmer, move!" Clint pushed Palmer off to the side. "Secure the building. I'll take care of this."

Natasha wanted to tell Clint that there was nothing to take care of because she'd just suffered a flesh wound, but the pain started to set in more and more with each passing second. Clint had his hands on her face, and then he started moving, scrambling and talking out loud so quickly she didn't even know what he was saying.

"Oh, God. Natasha? Natasha, stay with me. Stay with me, ok? I know you're—fuck, Jesus Christ—Nat, I need you to look at me. Do you hear me? Nat—I need you—I need you to keep your eyes on me. Don't pass out on me now. Ok? Ok, Natasha?" He was rambling, the words spilling from his mouth without a second thought, but he couldn't get himself to stay quiet. Natasha just stared up at him as if she were confused by everything that was happening, but pain screwed up her face as soon as he laid his hands to her torso.

"Dammit!" she cried out. "Dammit, that hurts!"

"Nat, I need you to let me help you. You're bleeding out, and you'll keep bleeding if—oh, God, ok." Clint swallowed hard and kept his hands over her wound. "Are you still with me? You still here?"

"Fuck," she gasped. "Oh, shit. Shit, Clint."

"You're going to be ok. I've got you. I've got you, Nat." He almost took his hand away to brush her hair back; red strands were sticking to her sweaty forehead, and they didn't look right there. Had she been in control of herself, she would have pushed them back and mumbled something about wishing her hair were longer so she could just put it in a ponytail, he thought to himself.

"You—you hit him?" Natasha asked.

"Of course," he replied. His throat started to swell up as he saw her fight back the pain starting to cloud her eyes, failing and squeezing her face together tight. "Hey, I'm going to need to check where you were hit, ok? It's probably not going to feel very good."

"Ok," she groaned out.

"Do you trust me?" Clint asked. Natasha gritted her teeth and stared at him, her green eyes wide and unblinking for a few seconds, and then she nodded. "Ok. I've got you. Palmer, radio this in!"

"I can't do that and—"

"Now!" Clint shouted.

"He's got a—another plane coming in. Hacked the system," Natasha said in an attempt to talk through the pain. "Coming now."

"Nat, I'm going to look at where you were hit. I need to see how bad this is." Clint started to move his hands away, but right as the pressure decreased just the slightest amount, her blood started to gush between his fingers. A wave of nausea passed over him, and he quickly looked away so he didn't lose it right here in front of her. "Jesus."

"Barton, we've still got 50 minutes before extrac's here. What are we going to do?" Palmer asked. "I've got the place locked down, but we're still out in the open. Romanoff said that that Tribiani woman is going to send more people in. What do we do?" He saw the blood on Natasha, and his face immediately drained. "Oh, fuck. Clint—"

"We wait," Clint interrupted, swallowing thickly. He stared at Palmer and waited for a protest. He saw it the computer genius's eyes—he could see the protest waiting to bubble up. "Palmer, we don't have a choice right now. We can't move her, and—and we've got to…" His voice trailed off as he started to feel a lack of control come over him. This was spinning completely out of hand. Natasha wasn't supposed to get hurt. She was supposed to be the one kicking them all out of the line of fire. Not the one taking the bullet. "We've got to stay. You got a gun on you?"

"No." Palmer shook his head.

"Take this." Clint pulled out his Glock and passed it to him. "If any of those bastards come, just shoot."

"You're a—you're a better shot—" Palmer started to argue.

"You passed your damn gun proficiency test, and I trust you to do this!" Clint snapped. "If it gets too much, I'll take over, but I need you to take the watch right now." Palmer hesitated, his eyes boring into Clint's, and then he nodded just once. "Go to the hall, and let me know what happens out there."

Palmer turned and walked out into the hall, and when the sounds of vomiting started, Clint spoke to Natasha in hopes that he could drown it out. "Hey. You need to stay awake, Nat. I'm serious. You can't go off to sleep. I know you want to, but you've got—you need to stay with me."

"Extrac's an hour—"

"Shhh. Don't talk right now, ok?" Clint kept the pressure on the wound. If he applied the right amount of pressure, he wouldn't be able to notice his hands shaking. If he didn't look at the blood pouring from beneath his fingers, he wouldn't be able to see how bad off she really was. If he just spoke nonstop, his voice wouldn't shake so much. "Just focus on staying awake for me. I know you can do it. I know it hurts—trust me, I know it does." He knew he sounded panicked, and he needed to be calm for her, but by God, it had to have been the hardest fucking challenge he'd ever come across. "Can you do that?"

"Y—yeah," Natasha groaned, but her focus was already starting to go hazy. "I think."

"Hang on, Nat. I've got you. I've got you."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Natasha stopped speaking with words.<p>

Thirty minutes later, she stopped making sounds at all.

Forty minutes later, her gaze began to slip away from his face.

By the time fifty minutes rolled around and Clint was running to the roof to catch the jet, Natasha in his arms and Palmer following behind, she was unconscious. He knew that it was adrenaline forcing him to get up and go, and he knew that it was technically a bad thing for him to move Natasha without the med team, but he didn't care. All he could think about was the blinding panic in his chest.

As soon as he got to the roof, everything happened in a blur. One second he was standing on the roof looking up at the plane, next second he was on the small jet handing Natasha off to a frantic med team who started shouting things at each other. Clint was numb. He was on autopilot. He wasn't in control of himself. He couldn't think. It wasn't until he moved to follow the med team that he realized Palmer was even with him.

"Barton, let's get you cleaned up. They're taking care of her," Palmer said. Clint blinked and stared at his friend as if seeing him for the very first time ever. He could see Natasha's blood splattering both of their clothes, but he didn't feel the hot liquid coating his hands or his arms or anywhere, really.

It was then that he realized he couldn't remember the last thing Natasha had said to him; God, he couldn't even remember the last thing he'd said to _her_. For the past hour he'd just murmured anything and everything he could to keep her awake and focused on him. And now, as he stood there in the damn jet, he realized that he couldn't remember a damn thing he'd said to her. And as stupid as it was, he couldn't remember if he'd told he loved her.

"No," he said stiffly. "I can't. I—I need to—"

"Dude, they're not going to let you in," Palmer said. He put his hands on Clint's shoulders. "They've got her right now. They'll take care of her."

"This is a—a plane. Not a hospital," Clint protested. "They can't—how could they—"

"They've got her. She's going to be ok."

He pressed his lips together and tried to quell the hard beating of his heart. What was happening around him didn't seem to be real. It had to be a dream because everything had just happened so _quickly_; they'd literally just been curled up in bed together, and now this…he couldn't wrap his mind around it, no matter how hard he tried.

"Agent Barton?" A voice off to his right distracted him, and he looked over to see a male agent. "I'm Agent Sanders, and I'm the commanding officer on this extraction team. We have some questions."

"I need to be with her right now," Clint said. His mouth moved, but he didn't feel as though he were the one speaking.

"I know you want to be with your partner, but I have a few concerns—"

"I'll tell you everything after I know she's going to stay alive, ok?" Clint snapped. A look passed over the agent's face, and his jaw tightened.

"Agent Barton, I understand that you're in a highly emotional place right now, but we're en route to the closest hospital. Trust me when I tell you that we're doing everything we can for your partner. I know that that's what's on your mind right now, but we need—"

"Go to hell." Without a second look behind him, Clint walked away. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do instead, but he knew that he couldn't sit and talk about a mission or why Palmer had illegally ordered an extraction team. Not now. Not yet.

* * *

><p>The next few hours were the worst hours of Clint's life. He'd sat in hundreds of hospitals before. Hell, if he really, truly thought about it, he could conclude that he'd probably sat in <em>thousands <em>of them. But the thing was, he'd noticed, no matter where he went or what country he was in, a hospital was a hospital. Waiting was waiting.

He didn't know how long he'd waited so far. As soon as the small jet had landed at the closest accommodating hospital, he'd been pushed into the waiting room without any clue what was going on. The first thing he'd done, after realizing that the doctors wouldn't tell him a damn thing about where they'd taken Natasha other than "to surgery," was go to the bathroom. He'd gone to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror before finally emptying his stomach into the toilet.

After that, he and Palmer had gotten coffee and sat together in silence. And throughout all of this, Clint didn't think about anything. He just moved when he had to and did what he needed in order to stay alive. The only thing he had room for in his brain at this very second was to breathe. If he stopped focusing on that, he was convinced he'd stop altogether, and what good would he be to Natasha if he were dead?

"Barton." A familiar voice caught his ear, and he looked up to see Fury standing above him. If Fury expected him to say anything, he didn't show it, and if Clint were surprised to see the director standing there, he didn't show it, either. He just stared. "As soon as I heard that Romanoff was hit, I left. I was actually in Greece at the time I got the call from Hill. She should be here shortly." Clint watched as the older man took his seat across from him. "I heard you were difficult for Agent Sanders."

"Yeah," Clint said without pausing.

"With all due respect, sir, Agent Barton was try—"

"And I heard _you_," Fury turned his gaze to Palmer, interrupting the hacker, "hacked into SHIELD to order an extraction team from a very top secret base."

Palmer swallowed and went still for a few seconds before nodding. "Well…yes, sir. I did do that."

"I assigned you to Agent Barton so that he'd have intelligent people surrounding him and watching out for him. Not doing stupid—"

"I'm sitting right here, sir," Clint interrupted with a trace of irritation in his voice. He didn't look away from Fury, instead choosing to stare directly at him. "I can literally hear everything you're saying."

Fury gazed levelly at him with his expression unchanged. "Did you know that Romanoff was reporting your status back to Hill?"

Clint shifted his jaw and felt his gaze darken. "Director Fury, I really would prefer to discuss the mission at a later time after my partner has been stabilized."

"I assigned you this mission because I thought it would be good for you," Fury replied, his voice not giving anything away. "I thought you needed a distraction after everything that happened with Loki. You're a lot like me in that you don't like to stay still for very long. You don't like to waste time."

Clint's face hardened, and he tilted his head to the side in disbelief, narrowing his eyes as he processed the director's words. "You gave us this mission because you were trying to keep me from wallowing in self-pity?"

"I was concerned about your mental state, and I thought it'd be best to send you somewhere you could feel useful. With Romanoff and Palmer watching you, I thought it'd be safe." Fury leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The mission wasn't supposed to go down like this. It was just supposed to be undercover work. In and out. Simple. Natasha was reporting back to us, and you were busy, and it was going well."

Suddenly, Clint snorted crudely, and he shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me, Fury. This mission has been one shit show after another from the very start. And—and you got Romanoff to _spy on me_? Are you joking?"

"Barton, I understand that you're upset, but we needed to know how you were doing," Fury said. His voice was calm, and he didn't look upset, but Clint was the total opposite. The archer moved to the edge of his seat and leaned forward.

"Well, then let me lay it out for you," he said quietly without looking away from Fury's face. "I'm having flashbacks, mood swings, and nightmares. And the best part is the fact that I have blank spots in my memory. I don't even know what I don't know, Fury. It's not until Romanoff or Palmer makes some kind of reference to something in the past I should know that I realize I don't have any clue what's going on." Furiously, Clint pushed up out of his chair. "This mission was jacked from the get go, Nick."

"If everything turns out ok, we'll put you both back in the—"

And then something inside Clint snapped.

"No!" he shouted, suddenly losing control over himself. "No. Look, I did it your way, and you know what? Everything is shot to hell! I'm not going back to finish whatever fucking mission you have planned for me."

"Barton, you're disobeying orders," Fury pointed out as he rose to his feet to count Clint. Clint paused and stared at Fury as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then he shook his head and laughed.

"So kick me out then," he said quietly. "Strip me of my badge. I don't care anymore, Nick. I'm done being your damn puppet when the woman I don't want to live without is fighting for her life on an operating table. _When _she pulls through, we're getting the hell out of here, and we're going to get past all this bullshit the way we should have in the first place."

He started to walk past Fury when the director stopped him. "Agent Barton."

He knew he should have kept walking down the hall to the waiting room, but out of habit, he stopped, though he didn't turn around. He just stood stock still in the middle of the disgustingly white hall with only the desire to get to Natasha stuck in his head.

"That's the Barton I know," Fury said. Clint thought about turning around and telling Fury to go fuck himself, but he didn't. In his anger and his pain, he simply walked away.

_Natasha, be ok_, he thought.

_Don't go_, he longed to shout.

_Stay with me_, he repeated in his mind. _Stay with me._


	14. Recovery

**Shoutouts to the-vintageclassic, pengineer, EpicPackage, CreativeDreamer98, Jo, patty cake rocks, TheNaggingCube, princessjoey630, beverlie4055, kamarooka, paranoid-mandroid, and Agent Keene for reviewing!**

**Hahaha I dropped this chapter unexpected like Beyonce dropped her damn album. Surprise, y'all. I got inspired over the weekend because I wanted to finish this story up and get started on the next one since I have lots of ideas. So yes, this is the last chapter of _Hawkeye, Compromised_, but don't worry because Part III is coming. Part III will be called _Stubborn Love_, and I promise it won't be as painful as these two have been. If you want an email or notification for when the first chapter is up, feel free to Favorite/Follow me! I'm going to stay on the same schedule of updating on Mondays and Thursdays, but don't expect the first chapter until Thursday.**

**I'll also be uploading on archiveofourown. I published a new oneshot there about how I think Natasha got the arrow necklace, and it's called _Bullseye, _so feel free to check that out, too.**

**Thank you so much for following/favoriting/reading/reviewing/sticking with me until the end of the line! Your support means more than I can say, especially since I had a rough start with the original sequel and wound up losing a lot of readers from it. You guys are the best, so thank you =)**

**For extra emotions, listen to "Gone Gone Gone" - Phillip Phillips. I know it's cheesy and overplayed, but it's fitting =)**

**Please, please, please let me know your thoughts on this last chapter! Also, it would mean a lot to me if you didn't unfollow/unfavorite this story just because it's finished! Thank you again for sticking with me and making this journey such a fun one.**

**Enjoy! =)**

* * *

><p>Chapter 14<p>

Clint didn't mind hospitals. Of course, he would much rather prefer to not be in a hospital at all, but if he had to be, he could exist like a normal human being without freaking out or getting anxiety from it. There were some agents he'd worked with who wouldn't go near a hospital, even if their partner were inside about to die. Clint attributed his nonchalance to the fact that he'd been hospitalized so many times that it was just second nature, but some of those agents hadn't even broken a finger, let alone a major bone.

Actually, Clint prided himself on how well he could behave in a hospital. In a way, it was almost second nature. He was used to waiting for doctors to see him or his partner, and he was used to letting time waste away as the seconds ticked on. But this time was different. This time, Natasha had been bleeding in his arms, and he'd been unable to do anything more than talk to her. God, he hadn't even been able to hold her because he'd had to keep pressure on the wound. All that time on the floor, and he'd just talked to her, mainly repeating words of comfort of how she was going to be ok.

He walked down the halls of the hospital without any particular place in mind, and he thought about all the times he'd failed Natasha. He couldn't remember half of them, but he could remember a lot of them. But the one that stuck out most of all was this one. Out of every time he'd failed her, today had been the most serious occurrence and the one that he hadn't been able to afford losing.

Clint didn't know how long he walked up and down identical halls, but eventually, he found himself back at the initial waiting room. Nick was gone, but Palmer was still there, looking worried and upset. Sitting right by Palmer was Maria Hill, who looked every bit as worried as Palmer did. Clint slowly dragged his feet over to them, noticing how Maria blinked extra hard when she saw him, as if she couldn't believe that it was him.

"Barton," she said.

"I know. Fury already came and yelled at me," Clint replied.

"I'm not here to yell at you." She gave him a tired, uninterested look. "I'm here because you two are my agents, and one of you is hurt." Clint stared at her, and she nodded towards the seat across from her as an invitation for him to sit down. Still moving solely on physical motivation and nothing else, Clint stiffly sat down. "Just so you know, Romanoff didn't want to report back on you. She said it felt sneaky to her. She actually missed her check in with me yesterday on purpose, and I covered for her. Told Fury that she'd called, but I hadn't put in the latest report yet."

Clint's expression became less wary, and he stared at her with new regard. "Why?"

"You think I like this?" Maria asked mildly, her face showing signs of stress. She lifted a hand and smoothed the side of her bun back as she fought to hold in a sigh. "At first, I thought that Fury might have been right on giving you a mission to take your mind off things. We've seen how you've gotten before whenever you have too much time off. You get antsy, and when you have to do paperwork, you distract the junior agents."

Clint couldn't argue with her, but he wasn't going to let her off that easily. "So sending me on a Level Four mission to keep me occupied was the natural answer."

"Yes," Maria said with a nod. "But that was until I really thought about it. Barton, you and I have known each other for years. We're friends. I thought it was sneaky and backhanded, but I'm your handler now, and I have my own orders to follow. Don't be mad at her. She didn't want anything to do with it."

"I'm not mad at her," Clint protested, feeling like a little kid arguing with his brother again.

"Not right now. But when she wakes up…remember that." Maria gave him a long look, and he held her gaze, finally nodding and looking away. He really wasn't mad at Natasha. How could he be mad at her? He'd just spent God knew how long walking up and down the fucking halls of the hospital to stop worrying about her but to no avail.

Worry was a funny thing, Clint realized. He knew that his defense mechanism was to shut down. He normally turned inside himself and fought out his emotions by pretending that they didn't exist, but worry didn't always allow that. His worry for Natasha shone through the hard wall he'd let come clamoring down, and he couldn't stop it, even though he'd been trying to the second he'd passed her to the medics.

Time passed, and he tuned his mind out the way he did whenever he was sharpshooting. He could be patient. He had all the patience in the world. He hadn't sat on countless rooftops for countless hours only to be labeled as impatient. But when the doctor came around the corner with a clipboard in hand and let his eyes fall on the three agents sitting there, he'd never been more impatient to hear the results in his entire life.

"Miss Romanoff's family?" the doctor asked in English. Clint leapt to his feet, nodding and moving swiftly towards the doctor as Maria and Palmer pulled themselves up and over, too.

"Yeah, that's us," Palmer replied.

"How is she?" Clint asked.

"Surprisingly, the bullet didn't leave any severe damage to major organs. What damage there was, we were able to repair with little trouble. However, Miss Romanoff lost a lot of blood." The doctor's face was serious as he looked at all three agents, and Clint felt his heart drop down to his feet. "A lot. She flat-lined twice in the OR."

"But is she ok?" Clint asked, suddenly feeling very desperate. If he had to wait another second to hear how she was, he felt as though he were going to explode right there on the spot.

"She's alive," the doctor answered with a quiet smile. "She pulled through, and she's resting now, but yes, Miss Romanoff is expected to make a full recovery."

"How long will that take?" Maria asked.

"She should be stable enough for a transfer in about a week, and then a few more days in the hospital in the United States, and then she should take it easy for about three months after that," the doctor replied.

"Where is she? Can I see her?" Clint asked, feeling his eyebrows draw downward into a concerned frown. The doctor smiled and nodded.

"Yes, she's ready for visitors. She's still unconscious, but—"

"Where is she?" Clint asked again. If the doctor were offended, he didn't show any signs, but then again, doctors were like that, Clint had realized. Doctors dealt with distraught friends and families on an every day basis, so Clint's outburst, his short interruption, was nothing in the long run of what his reaction could have been.

"She's right down this hall. I'll have one of the nurses take you," the doctor said as he lifted a hand and beckoned one of the nurses to come over. Again, Clint felt the immediacy to be near Natasha build up in his bones, and he could barely wait for the dark-haired woman to take him, Maria, and Palmer down the hall to the room. He knew that he could switch off auto-pilot at any moment, but he couldn't quite seem to get his body to turn it off. Not until he saw her. Not until he could see for himself that she was ok.

He didn't remember the nurse pointing out the room, and he didn't remember Maria grabbing Palmer's arm and holding him back while Clint crossed into the room the nurse had led them to. He just moved, holding his breath as he waited to see her. And then she was in front of him. She was unconscious and paler than she usually was, but she was there.

Clint's breath caught in his throat as he looked at her. Technically, Natasha was ok. As long as she was alive, that meant that she was ok. But the longer he looked at her and saw how still she was, the harder it was for him to believe that she was ok. Deep down in his chest, Clint knew that this wasn't his fault because there was no way he could have prevented, and yet he couldn't shake the guilt that lingered over his skin. He slowly crossed towards Natasha and took deep, painful breaths to make the weight off his chest lift. The air around him seemed to grow extra right, and the pressure on his skin became almost unbearable, but Clint knew that he wouldn't leave her.

He sat down in the chair beside her bed, pulling it closer to her bedside. He knew it wouldn't matter to her whether he held her hand or not because she was unconscious, lost in her medically induced sleep. But it mattered to him. So he reached out and touched her and closed his eyes when he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his hand. One thing he never tired of when it came to Natasha was how warm she always was, even though she complained about being cold. She was constantly taking his sweatshirts and jackets and putting them on before curling up near him as a way of hinting that she wanted him to touch her and warm her up with his body.

As long as she stayed warm, she was alive, he told himself. _So Natasha_, he thought_, stay alive_.

* * *

><p>Over the next hour, Clint kept watch by Natasha's bedside, constantly checking her pulse to make sure that she was ok. He knew he was being paranoid about it, especially since the doctor had said that she was going to pull through, but he had to check. At some point, Palmer came in and brought him a coffee, which Clint eagerly accepted, but for the most part, Clint was left to himself.<p>

It wasn't until he was mostly through with his coffee that Natasha began to wake up. He saw it before he felt it in her hand, but the second he saw her start to move, he felt his heart leap. Sure enough, Natasha slowly opened her eyes, squinting against the dim light in the room as her sensitive green eyes registered where she was.

"Hey. Hey, Nat," he said quietly, his heart stuck in his throat. At the sound of his voice, Natasha turned her head to the side and looked at him. Slow like melting butter, her mouth slid into a small smile. As Clint looked at her, he felt his heart race so fast he was sure it'd burst out of his chest. She was ok—she was drugged and probably in pain, but she was ok, and that was the only thing that mattered to him in that moment.

"Hey," she murmured so quietly that had Clint not been looking at her, he wouldn't have heard her.

"Hey. Do you know where you are?" he asked. She blinked several times, her eyes still squinted as she adjusted to the light.

"Hospital," she replied.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" Clint asked. He noticed how her hand seemed to curl more securely into his as if she were acknowledging his physical presence there with her.

"Mm-mm," she mumbled with a mild shake of her head. She paused and frowned just a tiny fraction. "Guns."

"Yeah, there were guns. You got shot," Clint said. Despite the serious tone of the situation, he started to laugh, and he shook his head, looking at her face as if she held the sun in her hands. "You scared the _shit _out of me, Nat. I thought you were going to die."

"Not today." Natasha mustered a faint smile. Clint could tell that she was fighting through the fogginess of her pain medication, and he moved a little closer to her.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"Mmhmm," she said. "Don't care."

"Morphine," Clint answered, nodding with his own faint smile. "They've got you on morphine."

"Makes sense." Her eyes started to lose focus, and her head tilted to the side the way it did whenever she was getting ready to fall asleep. "Tired."

"Yeah? I know you are," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Go to sleep, Nat. I'll be here when you wake up."

His words seemed to have an effect on her; suddenly, she stared at him with strangely clear eyes, and she began to shift on the hospital bed, her face screwing up tight with pain. "Shit."

"Natasha, don't move. Just rest up," Clint said with a frown, unsure of what she was doing. But true to her stubborn nature, she didn't listen and kept shifting to the side. Finally, he saw what she'd done. With tired, pained eyes, she looked at him and gave a small, inviting jerk of her head.

"Come on," she said. Clint's heart lurched, and he gave her a worried look as he calculated whether or not he would be able to fit on the bed with her.

"Nat, I don't want to hurt—"

"Come on," she interrupted. "Tired."

Clint paused for just a few seconds, and he was about to tell her no because he was too damn afraid of hurting her, but she looked so tired and expectant that he found he couldn't say anything but yes. Moving carefully, he let go of her hand, slipped his shoes off, and slid beneath the thin blankets covering Natasha. As he settled down into the bed, being way too cautious about where his body was in relation to hers, he was startled to notice how much she relaxed into him. Her head leaned against the edge of his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, already breathing deeply.

Suddenly, it hit Clint that he'd almost lost her. Natasha had almost _died_. She still wasn't even completely out of the woods yet, but she was more alive than she was dead, the complete opposite from when he'd last seen her. He leaned his cheek against the top of her red hair and squeezed his eyes shut in order to try to regain control over his emotions. His jaw tensed, and his mouth shook as he pressed his lips tight together with the force of everything he was feeling. Even in her tired, medicine-filled state, Natasha felt his physical reaction.

"Clint?" she murmured curiously.

"Just get better," he whispered, his voice thick. He laced his fingers with Natasha's again and felt her lightly squeeze his hand in response. "I need you to get better and be ok."

"Promise." She tucked her head into a more secure position against his shoulder. "Not going."

"Good." Clint felt his voice catch, and he squeezed his eyes together even tighter. "Because I love you, Tasha. I love you so fucking much, and I don't want a new partner. So get better. And fast."

"Love you, Clint," she replied, the volume of her voice slipping as she lost the fight to stay awake. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the back of her knuckles more out of an attempt to soothe himself than to soothe her, and he simply lay there, feeling the warmth of her body. She was alive. She was alive, and she would be ok, he thought quietly to himself. She would always be ok.

* * *

><p>The next two weeks passed slowly and quickly all at the same time. Each day Natasha improved, and the time came when she was finally cleared to be released back to the United States to continue her recovery. What Natasha knew was that she was going home. What she <em>didn't <em>know was that Clint had a plan for them.

It wasn't until Natasha found herself in a car she didn't recognize, wincing at the still lingering pain in her torso, with Noelle in a carrier in the backseat that she knew something was going on. "Clint? What—why is Noelle here? This isn't even your car."

"I know. That's why we've got to pull out now," Clint replied as he slid into the driver's seat. He glanced over at her and saw the jet lag all over her face. "Also, Wood owed me a favor, so when I called Allison and told her that I was sending my cousin over to pick up Noelle for me, Wood went and got her."

"Wait, why is Noelle in the damn car?" Natasha repeated. "I'm tired. I want to go home."

"We're taking a detour," Clint said, easily shrugging. Natasha stared at him and then sighed, letting her head fall back against the headrest.

"You've been off since Italy," she pointed out. Clint got the engine going and then put it into Drive, easing it out of the spot in the SHIELD parking lot. "Ever since I got shot, you've been weird."

"Well, I didn't want to ruin the surprise." Clint rolled his eyes and shot her a look. "We're not exactly going home, and I didn't want to tell you because I'm not a killjoy."

"Then where are we going?" Natasha asked. Clint shot her another look that told her she shouldn't ask questions, and she just raised her eyebrows at him. When he didn't reply, she let out another sigh and turned around to look at Noelle in the backseat. "Hi, Noelle. Hey, kitty cat. Where's he taking us, huh?"

"It's a long ride, so get comfortable," Clint said blithely. Natasha turned her green eyes onto him and gazed at him with a curious expression. "What?"

"What is this?" she asked. "And when I say you've been weird since I got shot, you've been really weird. Dr. DiAngelo wasn't thrilled about me making the flight back to the U.S., let alone a road trip."

"I never said anything about a road trip," Clint answered with a slight grin on his face.

"We're in a car that belongs to neither of us with out of state tags, and our cat's in the backseat. We're not going home, and we're not going on a weekend trip to Ocean City, Maryland. From what I've been able to tell, we're going somewhere pretty far away, and we're staying there a while," she said. Clint's grinned widened, and she found herself giving him a small smile in response. "I'm observant, Barton. I might not be as sharp as I usually am since these meds dull me out, but I've still got some of the goods."

"You're impressive is what you are," Clint answered. "Well, you're not wrong in any of that guessing."

"So you want to explain to me what all of this is about?" she asked. Clint drummed his fingers against the top of the steering wheel as she looked at him. He had that look on his face as though he weren't sure if he were going to let her in on his little secret or if he were going to tell her, so she did the thing she knew was best to do in this situation. She waited.

"Fury wanted to put us back in the field," he said finally. Natasha jerked her head to the side and stared at him with large, disbelieving eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"I—I think he meant it as a good thing. He knows that whenever one of us gets hurt, we're both out for blood afterwards. But I told him no. They can send in other people to clean up the Tribiani mess. I told him we were getting the hell out of dodge." He took a quick peek at her to see her reaction. In the backseat, Noelle let out a mournful meow at being cooped up in her carrier as their background soundtrack.

"Oh," she said, her tone unclear. "Well, that doesn't surprise me."

"Nick forgets that because he never needs to stop, his agents don't," Clint remarked with just a hint of exasperation in his voice. "He didn't argue with me when I turned him down, though. I think he knows we've done enough."

"We have," Natasha carefully agreed. "Did he say who he was sending in to clean up the Tribianis?"

"No. Since our cover was blown, they're probably sending in tactical or something. Francesca and all of them will most likely wind up in SHIELD prison," Clint replied. He took another look at Natasha and saw her face draw downwards. "You ok?"

"Yeah. Just…wishing the mission had turned out differently," she said without looking at him. She turned her head towards the window so he couldn't see her. "I don't like leaving loose ends."

"Would you have preferred to finish the mission?" Clint asked, surprised. "I thought you'd—"

"No, no, no. That's not what I'm saying." Natasha turned her head back to look at him. "I think we need time away from SHIELD because—God, look at us. Not even two months ago, the whole New York thing happened, and we've been going nonstop because of it. It's a surprise neither of us got shot up sooner."

"Nat, you were right," Clint said suddenly. Natasha kept her gaze on him, and she tilted her head to the side as she waited for him to continue. He looked nervous and apprehensive, unsure of what he was about to say. Out of nervous habit, he started thumping the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. "I'm not…I'm not really ok. I mean, my nightmares are getting better, and I'm getting a little bit more sleep than I was, but…as a whole, I'm more _not _ok than I am ok."

"First step to healing is admitting it," Natasha quipped gently, meriting a quiet smile from him.

"Then I hope you're happy," he said. "I don't like saying I need help, so…there you go. Write it down or something."

"I get it," she replied, leaning her head back against the headrest. "I really do. If I could go the rest of my life not ever needing anything from anyone, I'd be happy, but…sometimes it doesn't hurt to have a little back up. And I'm your back up, Clint. I'm a bit of a sorry excuse for back up with this hole in my body, but I'm still your back up."

She watched Clint swallow and nod as he kept his eyes on the road to navigate the busy New York City traffic. His eyes were hidden behind his typical sunglasses, but if she'd been able to see his eyes, she knew she would have seen that soft look he always got whenever he felt grateful.

"Good," he said. "Because I'll need you to back up some parts of my memory that aren't really there anymore."

"I can do that," Natasha agreed. "I can definitely do that.

After a few seconds of silence, he cleared his throat and grinned. "I'm still not telling you where we're going."

"Goddammit, Barton."

* * *

><p>Since Clint hadn't been getting a lot of sleep, anyway, he drove straight through. About halfway through the trip, Natasha knocked out in the backseat with a pile of pillows around her to make her more comfortable, and it was just him and Noelle now in the passenger's seat as he finished up the rest of the drive. In the midst of driving, he had time to think about what he was doing. He'd been solid on this plan back when he'd made it in Italy, but now as the moment drew nearer, he really started to understand the risk of bringing Natasha to this place.<p>

He quieted his mind with soft classic rock on the radio, and he drove. Strangely enough, he found driving to be therapeutic, so he tried to focus on that instead of the other things that threatened to take over his mind. It wasn't that he didn't trust Natasha because he trusted her explicitly—he just didn't know how she'd react to where he was taking her. He glanced back into the backseat to find Natasha sleeping hard, something she never really did. As a spy, she was a pretty light sleeper, always on alert even when she was unconscious. However, the medication she was on to help ease the pain knocked her out hard, and that meant Clint was her eyes and ears.

With nervousness in his chest, a quiet cat beside him, and the soundly sleeping shape of the woman he loved in the backseat, he drove.

It was four in the morning by the time Clint pulled up the long dirt driveway. Quietly, he shut the engine off and turned over his shoulder to put his hand on Natasha's arm. "Nat. Hey. Hey, wake up."

Slow and sleepy, Natasha opened her eyes and blinked them several times, stifling a yawn as she covered her mouth and stretched one of her arms out. "Mmm?"

"Nat, we're here. You're also probably due for another pain pill," Clint said. Painfully, Natasha pulled herself into a seated position, and she rubbed her eyes while Clint got out of the driver's seat and began shuffling around towards the trunk where their stuff was. She squinted her eyes outside at the darkness surrounding the car; she couldn't see much since it was so dark, but she could see some shapes looming out in the distance.

But it was the object right in front of her that made her pause. She was looking at a house. It was too dark to really tell much detail, but she could definitely make out the shape of a house with a large front porch and maybe some chairs out near the railing. Wincing as she moved, she swung her legs down and opened the car door. "Clint?"

"Yeah?" He looked over the edge of the trunk and slung one of their duffel bags over his shoulder.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"My place," he said. "I can grab Noelle."

"No, no, I can get her," Natasha insisted, but Clint walked past her to the front seat and pulled the cat out before shutting the door behind him. Natasha yawned and squinted her eyes at the house. "But where are we?"

"My place," Clint repeated. He waited for her to step forward. "We can stand out here all you like, but there's a bed upstairs that's calling my name."

"This is—is this really yours?" Natasha suddenly felt the exhaustion and the grogginess drain away as she processed his words. Out of the two of them, the one who was more likely to have a secret safehouse was Natasha, and she knew it. The both of them knew it. Clint was the one who was open about things, who didn't try to hide things from her on purpose, and yet here she was listening to him tell her about his place.

"Yeah," he said casually. "Come on."

"Wait, you have a house in—in—what state are we even in?" she asked.

"Can we go inside, and I'll explain?" Clint asked, a sigh evident in his voice. Natasha paused, and he turned to face her. "Please, Nat. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it if you're mad at me for not telling you, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who has a secret place."

Natasha lifted her eyebrows, though Clint couldn't see them in the dark, and she slowly exhaled the breath she'd been holding. "Touche."

He waited for her to walk beside him, never once asking her if she needed help because he knew she hated feeling weak. Instead, he slowed his pace and walked with her, remaining patient as she took her time climbing the stairs up the front porch. Natasha waited as he pulled out a key and stuck it in the door. After he'd unlocked it, she followed him in and waited for him to turn on the lights but found that he started straight towards the stairs.

She followed him up the worn stairs, placing one hand on the wall to steady herself as she went up. The walls felt older and comfortable, as if they didn't mind being well-worn with many years behind them. Her wound started hurting her near the top of the stairs, but she kept her mouth shut as she continued to follow behind Clint.

When Clint reached the landing, he set Noelle down and opened the door for the cat to go bursting out of in an excited burst of freedom. Natasha waited for some kind of explanation, but he kept walking in the darkness of the house. He walked into a bedroom and turned the lamp on in there, only looking back to see if she was following him.

Slowly, she walked into the bedroom and looked around. The house was older, but it wasn't ancient. It looked lived in and loved, two things she wasn't really used to seeing in a place of residence. Clint was already sitting on the bed and shoving his shoes off without so much as a second look her way.

"Where are we?" she asked. "This is your house?"

"Technically, it's my farm," Clint corrected in a nonchalant tone. Natasha's eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and she crossed towards him to sit beside him.

"Farm?" she repeated.

"Yeah," he said. "It's a farm. No one knows about it. Not Palmer, Fury, or anyone at SHIELD. Coulson didn't even know."

"I'm the only one," Natasha said slowly, more of a statement than a question. Clint nodded still without looking at her.

"It was the only option we had," he said. "I didn't want SHIELD getting involved here. It was either stay here with no chance of contact from them or go back home where they could still monitor us."

"All this time I thought I was the one with secrets," Natasha murmured. Finally, Clint looked at her with a slightly defensive expression, and she shook her head in a quick interruption before he could speak. "I didn't mean it as bad as it sounded. I just meant that I never would have thought you'd have…a house. A safehouse like this."

"Something like that." Clint's tone was vague, but she didn't ask him to elaborate. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"Don't be." She waved a hand in a brief gesture. "You did nothing wrong."

"I thought you were going to be mad."

"Why? Because you're smart? Clint, you did the same thing I've done."

Clint looked down at his lap, and she caught the shadowed side of his profile against the lamplight. He messed with his fingers and rubbed his callouses as if the motion were soothing for him. "I thought we could stay here for a while. Not long. A month, maybe. Just until you're better."

"And you," Natasha added. He looked up at her through his eyelashes, and she gave him a small but serious smile. "Until you're better, too."

For a moment, it looked as though Clint were going to protest, but then he nodded. "Ok."

"Good."

* * *

><p>In less than an hour, Natasha was curled up in Clint's arms with her nose pressed into the center of his chest the way she liked to be held whenever she didn't feel well. She didn't know how long they'd be there, but she'd already made her mind up that she wouldn't leave until he was ok, too. He could take care of her and worry about her all he wanted to, but at the end of the day, she would be the one to take care of him.<p>

She thought about New York, and she thought about Loki. She thought about the Tribianis and the fight in Italy. She thought about Clint climbing into her hospital bed and telling her he loved her. Yes, he'd tried to kill her, and yes, he'd fully intended to. But the thing was, when worse came to worst, he was always the one to save her.

_You're going to be ok_, she thought.

_I won't let you fall_, her mind whispered.

_We're going to be just fine_. _You and me, Clint. You and me._


End file.
